


to fasten sky to earth

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Crusades, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 78,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The monk relays Porthos’ words to the wounded knight. The crusader looks up at Porthos, and there are those eyes again.  Porthos understands enough to make out his reply. “So instead we should leave, because if I live today I can die nobly in battle some other day?” </p>
<p>Porthos flashes them both a grin; he blames the exhilaration of battle.  “Yes,” he says. “Well put.”   </p>
<p>Wheeling his horse around, Porthos takes off as fast as he dares through the trees, heading back to his commanders. He doesn’t stay to see if the two Franks make it out; he has done what he can for them, their fates are out of his hands. He will not think about them again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a time between ashes and roses

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is heavy on the history, but given the historical reality of the battle ahead, I thought it worth showing a bit of how the personalities involved got everyone into that mess. For a more light-hearted cheat sheet, I've written about it here: [The Charge of the Fuck Brigade](http://werebearbearbar.tumblr.com/post/145334035266/the-charge-of-the-fuck-brigade). Rating is for later chapters. Stick with me guys, have I ever let you down on an E rating?
> 
> Title and opening quote are both from Adonis, translated by Khaled Mattawa.

_A time between ashes and roses is coming_  
When everything shall be extinguished   
When everything shall begin.

~

The first time Porthos sees his future, it’s riding towards him through the trees at ‘Ayn Juzah, draped in mail and wearing a full-faced helm.  Armor and fabric cover everything but his eyes, and by the time he’s close enough for Porthos to notice that they are startlingly blue, it’s almost too late for both of them. 

Porthos is reaching for his mace, shorter and easier to swing in these woods than the cavalry sword at his side, when the horseman to his left charges forward. The soldier is slipping his feet into his stirrups and rising up in the saddle, he has his own mace in his hand, poised to come down on the oncoming enemy’s head. Porthos knows what the blow will look like, how steel can only protect a skull from just so much. He is ready to turn away when the other Saracen’s mount shifts, his barding catching on a branch they’re riding past. The quick sidestep from the horse is all that’s necessary for the rider to move off-balance.  Not too much, not enough to prevent the blow, but enough to soften it.

Instead of watching the enemy knight’s brains seep out through his chainmail coif, Porthos sees him go back and then sideways off his horse, falling to the ground in a heap.  The horseman with the mace has continued through the woods, the fervor of youth still in him, pushing him forward.  Porthos is making to follow when the Crusader moves as if to roll to his knees. There is a shout through the trees and the sound of approaching hooves, and Porthos braces himself for the next attack. 

It never comes. Instead there's just one man in dark Christian brother’s robes riding toward the fallen soldier. Porthos recognizes the monk’s habit almost immediately: he is an _ifrir_ , His horse has barely stopped before the  _ifrir_ slides from his saddle to kneel beside the knight and strip off his helm.  Their words are in French and muffled by the sounds of the battle and the monk’s helm, but Porthos can make out “your head” and “still ride?” and finally “my arm, you stubborn ass,” before the  _ifrir_  is helping the crusader to stand.   

Porthos should be doing something; he should be fighting or leaving, but something about this scene has him staying to watch. Each of these two men has been braver than their comrades.  The fallen man was brave enough to fight, to charge at Porthos unsupported and alone.  The monk in the black robe was brave enough to not fight, to drop to the ground beside the wounded and think first of his fellow men rather than personal glory. 

The monk looks up and sees Porthos, just a few horse-lengths away.  He’s staring at Porthos from under the brim of his shorter helm. “May I put him on my horse?” he asks in halting Arabic. “He has no more fighting today.”   

Porthos nods. There are words from the Crusader as he gets to his feet, but the monk only hushes him and shoves him toward the saddle. 

From far behind Porthos there is a huge ringing cheer; the day is theirs. This place the invaders call Cresson Springs has fallen, or at least that’s what the rest of the Arab army thinks. Porthos is watching this monk help an injured man onto his horse and he knows that no good fates await the surviving Franks today. 

“Go,” he tells the  _ifrir,_ using all the French he remembers _._ ”If you are here when they gather the survivors then death is the best you can expect. This one here,” Porthos gestures toward the knight now listing from one side to another in the saddle, “he rode straight at me with no fear. A man like that deserves better than what is coming to the captured here.” 

The monk relays Porthos’ words to the wounded knight. The crusader looks up at Porthos, and there are those eyes again.  Porthos understands enough to make out his reply. “So instead we should leave, because if I live today I can die nobly in battle some other day?” 

Porthos flashes them both a grin; he blames the exhilaration of battle.  “Yes,” he says. “Well put.”   

Wheeling his horse around, Porthos takes off as fast as he dares through the trees, heading back to his commanders. He doesn’t stay to see if the two Franks make it out; he has done what he can for them, their fates are out of his hands. He will not think about them again.

 

 

One thing Aramis has never grown used to, not even so long into his life here, is how sound carries in the desert.  

At first he thinks he’s imagining it, that the memories of Cresson are still ringing in his ears, even after almost two months, but a look out the window and over the valley shows that the noise is all too real. There are men, hundreds of them, thousands perhaps, marching past in the distance. Aramis can tell by the flashes of color he can see and the sounds of the songs carrying back to them, the sound of armor made of less mail and plate than he is accustomed to hearing, that these are not Europeans.  

He’d already been on his way to the Grand Master’s office with an armload of maps; he clutches them tighter to his chest and nearly runs the rest of the way across the fortress. The Hospitallers had taken heavy losses at Cresson Springs, including their former Grand Master. They’ve had this temporary custodian in place for less than six weeks and while Aramis likes him, news like this would be difficult for even a seasoned leader. Aramis thinks about Armengol, still struggling to settle into his position and rebuild their ranks. What Aramis has to say is about to make his job even harder. 

Striding into the office, Aramis drops the maps on the desk and says, “I have something you need to see.”  Armengol follows him out of the room. 

 

The column of men is even more clearly visible from up on the ramparts.  

“We knew it wasn’t over.” Armengol sounds frustrated, but not really surprised. “We just didn’t know it would start again so soon. So many are still healing after Cresson.”  

“If the king is only expecting as many as he had at Cresson, this could be a massacre,” Aramis says.  

Armengol’s face is dark, his heavy eyebrows pulled low over his eyes. “Take Brother Bernard; ride for La Sephorie. The latest report we have from the king is that he is waiting there to see what the Saracens will do.”  He curls his hands over the edge of the rampart and Aramis can almost hear the stone scrape over his sword calluses.  “Tell him what you’ve seen, these won’t be the only ones coming. I will gather as many as we have here, and send word to others. I know there are Brothers already there, but we’ll need as many as we can muster without leaving the fortress undefended." 

Aramis wants to say something, wants to reassure Armengol, but he’s waited a second too long and Armengol snaps, “Go!"

Brother Bernard is a clever boy.  He’s the second son of a minor duke, another in the legion of second and third sons that makes up this order. He’s good with his letters, with riding, but most importantly he’s a better swordsman than Aramis will ever be. Aramis is feeling as safe as he can when they ride out together later that day. 

They try, at first, to make small talk while they ride. Too soon it becomes clear that neither of them has the attention to spare.  They’re focused on remembering everything about the soldiers they saw, and on watching the way ahead. 

It’s late when they arrive, the citadel casting long shadows across the ground.  Aramis, a student of beauty in so many forms, stares at it in awe.  It’s the single ugliest building he has ever seen.  

Square and squat and devoid of ornament, the only reprieve to the otherwise utilitarian exterior is the stones around the base, clearly scavenged from other buildings. Aramis recognizes a few of the blocks as panels from a larger relief, and as they head into the inner courtyard he looks to the side and sees the lid of a sarcophagus. These should give the building character; perhaps dispel some of the sad, plain feeling of the place. Instead they only add to it a sense of careless ignorance.  

He can’t wait to give their information and be gone, to be home again in Belvoir. 

They’re greeted by a soldier, a man who could be twenty or fifty given the lines on his face. He’s wearing the livery of Raymond of Tripoli, a man known for being kind, and significantly less prone to idiocy than most of the other rulers in the region. Aramis tells him the reason for their visit.  

“Everyone has returned to their own encampments for the night. There will be a council in the morning.”  He shows them the cistern, the meagre kitchens, and a small, dark room in one of the building’s inner walls. “Make yourselves comfortable for the night, I will make sure you are awakened in time." 

They’d eaten on the road, dried meat and grain cakes, so there is nothing to do now but prepare for bed and listen to the sounds of men doing the same all around them.  Aramis thinks of the letters in his cell at Belvoir, the small but growing pile that began after Cresson, and he tries not to wonder if their writer will be here with the army. The question of his presence is pointless. Aramis is here with official orders from his custodian, orders to take as seriously as if they’d come from the Grand Master; he is not here to make eyes at handsome knights from across the room. 

The sounds settle around them as Aramis and Bernard roll out their blankets; everyone else seems to be bedding down at the same time. As Aramis closes his eyes, his head pillowed on his folded arm, he notices—now that the sounds of men have ceased—that it's much quieter it here than he is used to from military buildings. It seems even the rats don’t want to be in a place this ugly.

  

Aramis wakes at dawn, too used to waking for Matins to sleep longer. He says his prayers quietly, not begrudging Bernard the chance to rest longer. When his prayers are finished, Aramis listens to the citadel waking around him. There are shouts from where the kitchens must be; there is the heavy step of the night watch coming in and the rattle of their mail. Before long these noises are joined by the sound of someone clearing his throat in their doorway. Aramis turns and his “good morning” stops in his throat as he sees who it is.

The first letter had arrived just a few days after Aramis’ unit of Hospitallers had returned to Belvoir. There were a few lines about how the injury had been to his left arm, he’d landed on it wrong as he fell from the horse, and as such he’d still been able to write and wield a sword. He’d said that he was expected to make a speedy recovery, and he hoped Aramis did not mind that he’d spent some of his recuperation time writing to say thank you for his assistance on the field. The letter had finished with some standard platitudes and professions of gratitude and his signature. Polished, educated, swooping letters, two initials and his surname. 

Aramis had read it and then reread it. There was something between the lines, a restlessness and the kind of creeping boredom that Aramis has seen drive patients to rush their recovery and worsen their injuries. This is his excuse when he picks up a piece of paper and writes a reply. If Aramis can keep this man resting and occupied, even a little, then perhaps he’ll let that injury knit as it should.  

With riders crisscrossing the area frequently, there had been letters at least once a week, and often more. Aramis had asked questions about the injury, about the healing process, about what the knight had done to relieve his boredom between letters.  He’d been reading, he said. The letters in response to Aramis had been full of which treatises the knight had been reading, what new techniques and strategies he was looking forward to trying in the field.   

Their exchanges had been funny, a quiet, dry wit from the knight and Aramis’ customary sly humor, and Aramis had begun to look forward to them more and more. They’d argued tactics and history, and Aramis had lectured him on proper injury care and why the healers were not being ‘unreasonable devils sent to torment’.  Once the knight had returned to the field and written to Aramis about the kind of terrain they were stopping in, Aramis had spoken about how different Belvoir is from his home in France, hoping to tease out a little more about his comrade. But the reply he’d received had been full of only more questions instead of personal information in return. The man is still a mystery, but he’s a clever, kind, compelling, brilliant mystery. 

He’s Brother Aramis and that’s how he’d signed the letters in the beginning, but before long it had been only ‘Aramis’ or a hastily scribbled ‘A’ if he was short on time. The replies had gone from being signed with titles and surnames to just surnames, and once - haltingly, as if this were a risk - his full name, painstakingly written out. The last letter Aramis had received had been signed with the knight’s own hastily scribbled ‘A’ and Aramis had spared a kind thought for the man, grateful to have gotten a letter in the midst of a day that would put him in that kind of rush. 

It had gone quiet after that, no letters for the week before Aramis had seen the Saracens and been sent on this mission, and Aramis had worried that the knight had been lost. He hasn’t, clearly. He’s standing in the doorway, looking down at Aramis with an amused look and eyes full of curiosity. He arches one eyebrow.

“Brother Aramis." 

Aramis smiles, happy to see his friend whole and well. He doesn’t miss the addition of his title, even amidst the casual tone, so he makes sure to keep to the same level of formality.  “Good morning, de la Fère, are you our escort?" 

“Your minder, more like. The council is meeting in half an hour and I thought you might like some time to eat and prepare your belongings in case your news means we ride out sooner than expected.”   

Bernard introduces himself while he and Aramis roll up their bedding and lash it to their saddlebags. The three of them keep up genial, polite conversation as they are shown to a room with long tables. “There is some food on the side tables, help yourselves. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you to the council.”  Bernard thanks him and leaves them, heading for the food table to serve himself. They’re alone now. Aramis smiles, his hands clasping each other instead of reaching out to touch. 

“De la Fère." 

“It’s good to see you, Aramis."

“And you. I hadn’t heard from you this week." 

“You worried?” De la Fère’s brows draw in and then relax. “Of course you did, I imagine that worrying for your flock is an occupational hazard. Never fear, Brother, I was only out of ink until we arrived here. Go and eat, I have seen these commanders talk and argue, you will need your strength.”  His smile is wry and Aramis can see in it the hundreds of hours de la Fère must have spent shifting from foot to foot while others postured and schemed. 

Aramis smiles and pats de la Fère’s shoulder. “That sounds like valuable advice." 

When de la Fère returns to take them to the council room, he passes Aramis a sealed letter. “I’d written this yesterday, planning to send it out with one of today’s messengers. This is much more efficient.” 

Aramis tries not to read anything into his smile; he just enjoys seeing it.  He tucks the letter into his saddlebag, and he and Bernard follow de la Fère across the hall. 

 

This room is not big enough for all of the people in it and it is certainly not big enough for all of the egos in it. 

Aramis is aware, as is everyone in the region, of the tensions between the three most powerful men in the room. King Guy, tall and imposing, is standing at the head of the table with the air of a man who has spent decades working to be in that spot. To his left is Raymond of Tripoli, a man Aramis has met on a few occasions and who seems to be growing older and more tired the more often he has to deal with Guy. Today he looks especially drawn and pinched, and Aramis wonders if the others are being particularly troublesome or if there is something else going on.

Facing them both, across the table, is Reynald de Chatillon and Aramis takes a moment to be awed by how much he wants to punch this man before even hearing him speak. He’s heard about Reynald, of course, about his love for attacking weak caravans, but even more for the way he’d responded to opposition from the Patriarch of Antioch: by covering the man with honey and setting him to bake in the sun. Reynald’s face is sneering and smug, and Aramis is certain that the best thing for the Christian forces would be to lock him in the citadel’s grain storage rooms for the remainder of his life. 

After months of tension in the wake of his ascension to the throne, King Guy and Raymond have finally made a fragile peace, but this morning they appear to be about to come to blows. It’s clear that neither of them completely trusts Reynald, they both watch his every move. On the table between them is a map of the area, fortresses and castles marked, and tokens for the troops they may need to move.  

Guy jabs one finger at a marker of a castle sitting by a body of water, the Sea of Galilee, probably. “The fortress is being attacked by Saladin personally. I don’t see why you are not incensed by this, Raymond!"

“I didn’t say I wasn’t incensed, I only said that I think it would be catastrophic to march our entire army out to meet him in an effort to take Tiberias back!” 

Reynald’s sneer has somehow gotten bigger. “Your _wife_ is in there, defending it on her own, are you not worried for her?"

Whipping his head around to face Raynald’s accusation, Raymond says, “My _wife_  has been in charge of that fortress for quite some time. I assure you she is not in need of defending."

Aramis hears the smallest huff of breath and turns to his side to see de la Fère covering the sound by coughing into his hand. He nudges de la Fère and de la Fère turns to him, rolling his eyes.  Aramis can’t keep from smiling. 

De la Fère’s cough has called attention to them both, and all three of the leaders turn to look at them.  

“My Lords,” de la Fère says bowing slightly. “Brother Aramis has come from the stronghold of the Knights of St. John with news he thinks you should hear.”

Their gazes move to him and Aramis feels pinioned. He takes a deep breath and tells them everything. He points to Belvoir on the map and shows the movement of the enemy forces past it. He can’t guess at their eventual destination, but given the direction of the movement, there are only a few options. 

“How many?” Guy asks.

“Hundreds,” Aramis says. “Perhaps even a thousand."

Guy slams his hand on the table hard enough to make the pieces on the map jump. Raymond sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They are amassing their troops; it’s the only explanation. They’ll be bringing in forces of that size from other directions as well. Which is even more reason to _not_ take the bait at Tiberias.”  

Bracing his hands on the table, Guy leans toward Raymond. “Are you saying—" 

“I am _saying_ that it is _my_ fortress, and that even should it fall to the Sultan my wife would be released. Leaving here to take it back would result in us marching all of our forces away from a well fortified, easily defended position, and opening ourselves to attack in a march across waterless land. Can you not see that is precisely why he’s made this attack at the same time he is bringing in more troops? The security of this kingdom’s army and the stability of this position is worth more to me than that castle.”  Raymond’s voice reaches every corner of the room without shouting, and Aramis can see why he is considered such a great leader. 

Now Reynald leans forward to brace himself on the table. “To leave your house undefended? With your wife in it?  Surely you can see how this looks to the rest of us?”  Raymond narrows his eyes at him and Reynald stands, holding his hands out, palm up, and shrugging as if to say that the facts are not his fault.  

Guy crosses his arms over his chest. “Truly though, Raymond. What kind of man does not answer this kind of insult in kind?" 

Raymond stares at them. “I explain to you why I think the wisest choice for the strength of the army is to focus on our main opposition forces and you think my reasoning is cowardice?”  Now Raymond’s voice is gradually rising, and his last word is almost a shout.  

As though he is just remembering their presence, Reynald turns to Aramis. “Thank you, Brother. You may leave.”   

Aramis clenches one hand and tries not to imagine how good it would feel to hear Reynald’s nose crunch under his fist. 

Raymond doesn’t break his stare. “Much as it pains me to agree with him, perhaps it would be best if everyone else did leave.” 

De la Fère takes Aramis by the elbow and guides them out of the room, the other soldiers and knights and unit leaders filing out behind them, leaving the three commanders to fight this out on their own.  

For a moment, Aramis feels a flicker of hope that he might get to spend a few hours with his friend, but instead de la Fère says, “Don’t leave until they make a decision, they might need more information. I wish I could stay to talk, but I need to see to a few things.”  

Aramis smiles, squeezing de la Fère’ shoulder.  “Bernard and I will stay out of trouble, I promise.”   

One side of de la Fère’ mouth curls in a smile. “Why do I doubt that?” 

 

On their own again, Aramis and Bernard do keep busy.  They visit their horses, say their prayers, and take their midday meal on the roof of the citadel, looking over the stretch of land below them. With no idea what the rest of the day holds, Bernard finds a quiet corner of the communal dining room and takes a nap. When Bernard's gentle snores even out into a predictable rhythm, Aramis reaches into his bag and pulls out de la Fère’s letter. It’s not a long one, but it’s full of the subtle humor Aramis has come to expect from his letters.   

He talks about running out of ink after an accidental encounter between a comrade’s horse and his inkpot and apologizes for the delay in writing that resulted. He spares a few oblique words about the warring personalities of the commanders in charge of the armies and finishes with a description of the kitchen staff at the citadel and how much he admires the razor tongue of the head cook.  _He flayed one of the boys with his wit, but the words were so well crafted that we could not help but laugh, even the boy._  

Aramis considers writing back, but he knows the risk of de la Fère walking in at any moment is a real one and the idea of being found writing a letter to the man standing in front of him is a little more absurd than Aramis can allow at the moment. Instead he joins Bernard in a nap, and then they both have some scripture study before helping set out the evening meal. 

It’s after sundown before de la Fère comes to them again. He joins them at the table in a small office room looking exhausted, like he’s spent the day running front one end of the citadel to the other and back. Aramis suspects that’s exactly what he has been doing.

“For a while I’d hoped Raymond might make them see reason, but there was a rider in the afternoon.”  De la Fère sounds defeated and Aramis wants to squeeze his hand. Instead he puts both of his hands in his lap. “The fortress at Tiberias has fallen, Raymond’s wife has pulled back to the citadel. Guy and Reynald have insisted that if we do not respond it shows the entire army to be cowards.”  De la Fère drops his head into his hands.   

“What next?” Bernard asks. 

“We ride out in the morning,” de la Fère says, looking up and clenching his hands into fists on the table. "There’s been a messenger sent to Belvoir and more of your men will be here in a few hours. There is no large, reliable source of water between here and the fortress, and we will need to be moving faster than an army this size is capable of. The best thing we can do is get some sleep.”  

Bernard picks up his saddlebag and thanks de la Fère. “Will we be in the same room tonight?” De la Fère nods.  Turning to Aramis, Bernard smiles and says, “I want the side away from the door tonight." 

Aramis smiles in return. “Of course, Brother Bernard. You go on, I’ll be right there.”  

When they are alone, Aramis reaches across and wraps his hand around one of de la Fère’s fists and squeezes. De la Fère gives him a weak smile.  Aramis resists the urge to rub his thumb across de la Fère's knuckles.

“Saladin knows he can’t besiege every Christian fortress in the Holy Land,” Aramis says and de la Fère shakes his head. 

“His strength is in the field, where his cavalry and archers can move easily."

“If we leave here,” Aramis says, “we’ll be in the open. Right where he wants us."

“Yes,” de la Fère says. “We will.”  He puts one elbow on the table and rests his head on his hand, his knuckles against his mouth, and stares at where Aramis’ hand is still wrapped around his. 

Despite knowing they need their rest and their strength, it’s a long time before either of them goes to bed.

 


	2. what brings us together now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to stop himself, Aramis remembers the last time these three men met.
> 
>  _Here we all are again,_ he thinks, and tries not to laugh.

_Child who once was, come forth—_  
_What brings us together now,_  
_and what do we have to say?_

  
_-_ Adonis

~

  


They ride straight into the sun.

It’s barely above the horizon, still throwing pink light across the hills, when the horses are saddled and Aramis and Bernard join the other Hospitallers in the rearguard of the column; by the time they are away from the citadel, the sun is the perfect height to blind them as they ride. Aramis thinks about having waved a hand in farewell to de la Fère when they saw each other across the courtyard during muster and he wishes he’d written that letter last night, to hell with his fear of looking foolish.

Almost as soon as they are clear of the perimeter guard around the citadel, the attacks start. It’s never a full onslaught, just a few archers here and a few swordsmen there. Enough to throw everyone into confusion, forcing men who have spent the morning staring into the sun to try and focus on riders coming in from the sides; enough to draw forces from the ranks to give chase and slow down their progress as a unit. De la Fère, he knows, is ahead of him, up with Raymond in the vanguard, and Aramis hopes that they’re free from these nuisances.

There is a spring at Tur’an, a third of the way between where they left this morning and where the commanders hope to finish the day. Aramis has ridden past it more than a few times, and he wonders if, even with the meager output the spring provides, they will stop there. It’s a tease to his mind, a taunt. The column of the army does not even slow as it passes.

They're still several miles away from their goal of Tiberias and Aramis knows that while the Sea of Galilee stands waiting for them just beyond it, there’s no other water in between. An army will die of thirst long before it starves, particularly in the heat of the summer in the Holy Land. He knows that the commanders have wagered on them being able to reach the lake before the end of the day, but he also knows that King Guy has never covered this much distance in this little time, and certainly not with Saracen nuisance units nipping at their heels and slowing them down.

Bernard reins in alongside him, and nods vaguely northward. “They will continue to attack us as we march,” he says.

“Yes,” says Aramis. “They will."

“Many men have already drunk all the water they had when they left La Sephorie.” 

“And in this sun even those of us who have not finished ours can't blame them,” Aramis says.

Bernard’s voice is barely audible over the movement of the troops. “Will they march us until we get to Tiberias, half-dead from thirst and sick with heat?"

“It would seem they plan to do just that,” Aramis says.

“We’ll never get that far before dark, it’s almost six miles further. I am no great tactician, how is this wise?”  Aramis doesn’t answer, and Bernard nods. “I will have to trust that my commanders and my God have a plan for our day that we can not see."

Aramis looks at the hills, behind which he knows wait more of the small archery units that the Saracens have been sending at them since they started. “I pray you are right, Brother Bernard."

Aramis’ unit is in the rearguard, the last in the column, the last to see the springs and the village at Tur’an grow small in the distance behind them. They’re a mile away, perhaps two, when Aramis looks back and sees the flanking troops of the Saracen army come in from either side to cut them off. Enemy troops now stand between the Christian army and the nearest water source—and their best avenue of retreat, should the need arise. Now there really is no way out but forward. Aramis thinks about de la Fère, in the vanguard with the first troops to advance, and prays they’ve seen it too, that they’ll remember this when it comes time to plan the army’s next moves.

 

When the army shifts and starts to march to the north, Aramis almost misses it. The terrain has started to blend together into formless blots of color, and the hours in the saddle have brought on a kind of waking sleep. It’s been the only way to rest in between attacks from the swordsmen and archers that Saladin keeps sending.

There is confusion over the shift, with some of the units trying to continue directly east and some following the main body of the army to the north. The result is a grinding halt while requests for orders are sent and replies are awaited. In the terrible dead time while they wait to hear what’s expected of them, the small groups of enemy troops grow larger and larger until Aramis is watching men fall to either side of him with arrows in their necks.

“With me!” Aramis’ unit commander yells, and takes a group of twenty men to crush the newest advance. By the time they return, only sixteen strong now, the reply has come from the front of the column.

“We’re to camp here?” Bernard asks and Aramis can’t remember the last time he heard someone so confused.

The custodian has made his way over to them now, and Aramis finds himself comforted to see Armengol’s no-nonsense face, even if he seems as disgusted by the choices of the day as the rest of them. “Faith, Bernard,” he says. “The Lord is with us.”  

Bernard just nods, still obviously confused as to why they would change their direction, then stop, then decide to set up camp in the middle of nowhere, miles from any source of supplies.

Aramis can see dust clouds in the distance and he knows it’s worse than Bernard can imagine. Behind them lies the village at Tur’an and the springs there, and Aramis was watching as the Saracens took both. There have been strike forces riding at them from all sides for hours. The main strength of the enemy forces is amassed in a line in front of them. The Christian army is surrounded on all sides, and while the Saracens might be content to wait for the morning to meet on the field, it will be a field of their choosing. No enemy forces would stand by to let the Christians march past them.

There will be no water, no reinforcements, no resupply wagons, no retreat.

 

He’s been rationing his water so carefully all day, but Aramis spares himself a sip before the sun drops. The unit commanders pitch their tents, the kings and barons pitch theirs; troops like Aramis get no such luxury. If it were cooler they would start a fire and sleep around it, but right now it’s too hot even to move and it will stay that way until darkness has truly settled on them.

In the distance he can see a temporary command tent, the banners of the commanders hanging limp in the twilight, and he knows that his fate is being decided by men who have never met him and who are busy with their own agendas. This is what it means to be a soldier. This is what it means to be a monk. Aramis is both; his fate has never been his own.

Aramis finds a spot away from the horses but not so far that he can’t hear his commander should he call. He unrolls his bedding and sits on it, pulling dried meat and grain cakes from his saddlebag. He’s on his back, arm over his eyes, listening to camp settle around him, when he feels something nudge his foot.

“I thought you were meant to be saving souls,” a voice says.

Aramis doesn’t move his arm. He’s not surprised that de la Fère has found him. Pleased perhaps, and curious as to how he managed to locate Aramis so quickly, but not surprised. “Not in this heat. Why? Is your soul in need of saving?"

There’s a thump as de la Fère drops to the ground next to him.

“I have been trying to find a way to escape the conversation of the blowhards in charge of my unit, and when I saw the Hospitaller colors approaching I told them I had a message to deliver.”  Aramis drops his arm and peeks at him from one eye. De la Fère breaks off staring into the distance to glance sideways at Aramis. “I don’t have a message to deliver. Am I going to hell for this lie, Brother Aramis?” 

Aramis can hear the amused emphasis put on his title. He laughs and rolls his head against blanket until he is facing de la Fère. “Not with the proper penance. Say four Our Fathers and find me something decent to eat."

De la Fère smirks and pulls a pomegranate from his pouch.

They eat in near-silence, watching the camp around them. Before long, Aramis sees shadows forming not far from camp. “They’re sending troops closer."

De la Fère nods. “I heard some of the arguing. Raymond said that staying here tonight would be our death sentence. It was his idea to start heading north, he thought to make for the springs at the horns.”  He points to two low hills in the distance.

“Who decided to stop?"

A shrug, calculated disinterest that isn’t quite hiding the strategic mind behind his eyes. “King Guy, probably. He’s the only one who could have convinced Raymond to stay.” 

They spend a few minutes talking about the ride, about what may lay ahead of them, about how pleasant it is to get to talk outside of letters. It’s not much, on the surface, but Aramis pays attention to the spaces between the words and hears how seldom this man gets to speak freely with someone.

In the distance there are the sound of drums. The two men shoot a glance at each other.

“We have no drums,” Aramis says.

“No,” de la Fère’s eyebrows draw together. “Those are Saladin’s troops. Those are his drums. No doubt there will be other noises, taunts, perhaps small night time raids.”  He scratches under his chin. “I would be tempted to congratulate him on his tactics, were the men he is causing to lose sleep tonight not the very ones I need helping me survive tomorrow."

Aramis watches him toy with a strand of wool that’s worked its way loose from the blanket. Reaching behind his head, Aramis pulls out his waterskin, the emergency one, the one he never uses unless he absolutely must. The one he’s been saving for tomorrow. He holds it out to de la Fère.

There’s an air of reverence in the way de la Fère takes the water and drinks barely a gulp. He swishes it in his mouth, wetting his teeth and gums before swallows. Having taken only that one drink, he puts the cork back in the top and hands it back to Aramis. “Worth more than gold in this field. Thank you, my friend."

Friends. They are, now. Certainly more so than in the letters they wrote back and forth in the past six weeks. Aramis can see in him a kindred spirit, a man who is doing his best to make his way in a world where all of the important decisions are made by those fathoms above him. He’s wry and clever. Aramis thinks about the way he’d guessed at the intimidation tactics they can now hear taking place all around them, and he knows that there is no one he’d rather have at his back in a fight than a man who could see that coming.

He has become so important to Aramis in such a short time, this strange man with his air of aloofness that he wears like a cloak, so he can use his cleverness as a weapon. He’s become a confidant and a sounding board and one of the few secular voices in Aramis’ life. He says a quick prayer that they survive the coming fight, that they will have more letters and conversations ahead of them, more pomegranates shared and confidences given.

“You’re welcome, brother,” Aramis says.

Passing the last of the pomegranate to Aramis, de la Fère licks his fingers clean, and sucks at his thumb. Aramis watches how his tongue darts out, swiping a bit of fruit from the side of his hand, and he blames the heat rushing up his neck on the warm night. He knows that thinking any more about it would lead him places he left behind when he took up these robes.

“Thank you for the company and the respite from idiots,” de la Fère says, standing. The dark is loud around them, filled with the sounds of drums and shouting in at least three languages. Aramis gets to his feet and looks at de la Fère, takes him by the shoulder and squeezes.

“The pleasure was all mine, thank you for the fruit.”  Their eyes meet and Aramis tries to find a way to express his concern, his gratitude for this night of conversation and friendship. “There were more archers than any other troops coming at us today. Keep your head down tomorrow."

He watches de la Fère walk away and sneaks a quick sip of water, trying not to think about the last lips to touch the mouth of the skin.

 

 

The battlefield is worse than any biblical hell that Aramis has ever read about.

The Saracens have set fires, dozens of fires, and the smoke is lying over the field in a suffocating blanket. Everywhere men are begging for water; men who marched away from clean, cool wells yesterday morning and are now choking on dust and smoke. They’re lying on the ground, grabbing at his horse’s legs, and begging with what’s left of their voices.

Troops from their own armies are riding over them, past them, running for higher ground where they can at least see.

Aramis knows there’s at least one unit with water, the St. Lazarus knights always travel with their own supply, but it’s almost worse than no water at all. None of these men, even at their worst, would take water from a leper.

He’s looking around frantically, trying to spot a waterskin on any of the fallen, when he sees the big Saracen ride into the fray. He’s… familiar. Suddenly it’s there—the fight at Cresson Springs. He remembers helping de la Fère to his horse. He remembers the Saracen, _this_ Saracen, letting them ride away.

A Templar with no comrades rides in from the other direction, sword drawn and screaming, his voice wrecked from the smoke. He catches the big Saracen at a spot where there is leather but no mail or plate. Half an inch either direction would have made the blow useless, instead the leather splits, the fabric splits, the skin splits, and the Saracen is falling from his horse.

An instant, a heartbeat, and this man is laying in the dirt bleeding and grunting in pain. The Templar keeps riding. He knows as well as any soldier that once on the ground, with a gaping leg wound, the opponent's fight is as good as over. So is his life. No need to hang around wasting energy killing him, disease or the battlefield will do that for you.

Aramis wheels his horse around, riding for the fallen soldier. He’s out of the saddle almost before they’ve stopped. The narrow hem of his robe hobbles him and Aramis can hear it ripping at the seams along the sides. The width left won’t be enough to wrap the wound, so he tugs his robe off over his head and tears strips from the length of it. He’s kneeling next to the Saracen, using all the Arabic he has to try and convey that he’s helping, he’s going to try to save the leg, he’s going to have to move the mail. The Saracen just nods.

From the direction the Templar had gone comes a knight in a red tabard on an outsized black horse. "What in God's name are you doing?" he shouts. His words are muffled by a helm that covers his entire face, but his tone is clear enough.

"Yes, exactly! In God's name, I am helping someone who needs me!” Aramis yells back.

"You would help him instead of others who have fallen?” It’s a question, not necessarily an accusation. The horse is dancing around them, the knight casting his head from side to side, frantically checking for threats.

Aramis looks up at him from under the low ridge of his own helm. "The last Christian I saw on this field was holding his own guts in his hands and choking on blood. Only the merciful Almighty can help him. This man," he points to the Saracen who is watching this exchange with an ashen face, "is here, he is hurt, and I am not going to leave him to die in the smoke and the heat like an animal!"

The knight's only response is a noise of frustration. He dismounts, whispering a quiet word in his horse's ear, and takes a stand between where Aramis sits by the fallen Saracen and the side of the battlefield where Saladin's troops started the day. Though, really, Aramis supposes by now the field belongs to chaos and death more than any single force, and soldiers of both armies are coming from all sides.

Turning his head back, the knight yells, "Well then, hurry, damn you!" 

Startled at having blasphemy directed at him while he’s holding his robe emblazoned with the white cross, Aramis looks up and sees the knight looking back at him.

Aramis knows those eyes. Now that he can hear it above the fray, he knows that voice, too.

He ignores the jump of his heart in his throat at seeing de la Fère alive. Winding the strips of his own clothing around the Saracen's leg just over the cut, Aramis thinks of those letters, wrapped in a leather tie and tucked in the back of a drawer. He thinks about their conversations yesterday, and is so grateful that they have both survived. Unable to stop himself, Aramis remembers the last time these three men met.

 _Here we all are again,_  he thinks, and tries not to laugh.

The tabard is new; Aramis supposes it’s part of the new position de la Fère holds. He must have left it off yesterday to avoid having one more layer of clothing on him. "Will you forever be yelling at me in battle, de la Fère?" he asks. He ties off the fabric and twists the knot to tighten the tourniquet. 

"Yes," de la Fère says. "Every time you risk your life by getting off your horse in the middle of a fight I will yell at you. Every time until you succeed in killing yourself, because then you will not be here for me to scold anymore. I will probably weep from boredom."

Aramis takes the Saracen's hand and puts it over the knot, squeezing the big man’s fingers around it. The Saracen nods and keeps his hand on the twist of fabric while Aramis pulls most of the bloody cloth from the wound.

Pulling the Saracen's waterskin from his belt, Aramis looks up at de la Fère again. "I will do my very best not to deprive you of your entertainments.” The water washes blood and dirt and bits of linen and leather from the cut. Aramis can see only a little bone; that's a good sign.

"How much longer?”  De la Fère's voice is worried and Aramis wonders what he might see through the smoke.

"I want to sew this before I cover it, but there isn't time for that, or supplies." He takes another strip and winds it around the wound, watching the blood soak into it and hoping the pressure is enough.

"Now!” de la Fère says. "We must go now!" 

"He is not--!"

"He will not be in need of aid, we will!" 

Aramis sees them now, a small group of Saracens, seven at most, riding toward them through the smoke. Suddenly there is no more time. No more time to get on their horses, no more time to leave. No more time.

The man at the head of the party speaks to the Saracen on the ground. His words are clipped and fast. The Saracen answers back, holding his hand out to stay their sword arms and pointing first at Aramis and then at his own leg. It occurs to Aramis that, having torn off his robe, he looks like a common soldier in just a mail shirt, tunic and pants. Given the fate of the Hospitallers after the battle at Cresson Springs, Aramis is glad to be unknown. He wonders if this makes him a coward.

The commander asks a question and the Saracen considers it before nodding. Aramis catches a few words of his response.

"Yes --- much generosity -- Damascus -- " He finishes with those words that Aramis has learned strictly translate to 'If God wills it' but carry so much more meaning in them. Aramis loves this phrase.

The leader barks orders to the men around him, those men hoist the big Saracen up until he has his arms draped over their shoulders and they’re supporting him. Once he’s on his feet it’s clear how hurt he really is. Aramis is yelling about the wound, how it needs to be stitched closed, how the dirt and smoke will irritate it. The soldiers ignore him and when Aramis turns to the leader, to insist on the proper treatment for the injured man, he sees the leader staring back at him with hard, intelligent eyes.

“You have my word, he will be well cared for,” he says in accented but excellent French. "A fact which you will be able to see for yourself.”  He gestures back in the direction the riders came from. “You will please come with us?"

“I—"

Aramis feels a hand catch his own just above the elbow. De la Fère’s mouth is right next to Aramis ear and his voice is only loud enough to carry those scant inches. “We are being captured. What you are must be a secret if you want to live. If we fight now, we’ll die here. Let’s go, and we’ll figure this out when we can."

One of the band takes the reins on de la Fère's horse. The stallion is already dancing, unused to the smaller mares the Muslims are riding. De la Fère says a few words, tries to calm him. The Saracen leader calls to a soldier on foot and the man comes, mounts the horse, and rides out ahead of them.

Aramis looks around for his own horse and realizes that in the midst of the fighting and confusion and bloodshed, his sweet-tempered mount has fled. They are now alone. The only Christians nearby are dead, or very nearly dead. They have no horses, no water, and the leaders from their side will be lucky to survive the day.

There are no other options. Either they go, or they die. Aramis wants to die fighting, or asleep in his bed, not here in the middle of this god-forsaken field where even the sun is obscured by smoke from the fires and dust kicked up by thousands of horses. They might still die, wherever they are headed, but at least he’ll be able to see the sky again before he goes.

Aramis looks up at the leader, can see the peak of his helmet gleaming even in the smoke. “We will come with you."

The leader doesn’t bind them, he simply gestures ahead of himself to show that he will follow them. He will be able to see them.

They’re taken from the smoke and dust to a place where other prisoners are gathered. Water is passed to them and it is the purest, most beautiful thing Aramis has ever tasted. From here, the infantry up on the hill is clearly visible. He can see thousands of soldiers pushing to make their way down to the plain and the rush of Saracens fighting them back. It takes hours, three pushes by the crusader army, each pushed back, but Aramis and de la Fère are both watching when King Guy’s tent falls and the battle is officially decided.

After that, there is nothing for them to do but wait.

 

Late in the afternoon, when the field is quiet except for the low, distant voices of leaders making decisions, de la Fère turns to him and says, “I should be yelling at you still, but I find myself worn out from the day."

Aramis is surprised to hear himself laugh. “I promise to castigate myself on your behalf."

“Thank you."

They’re quiet again, no use speculating on what will happen next. Soon, a soldier approaches and speaks to the guards watching them. He indicates a few random prisoners around them and then the two of them specifically. They’re prodded and made to rise and follow the man.

“We’ve been given as spoils of battle to one of the soldiers, he’s taking us there,” Aramis says.

“Yes, I’d guessed that much."

 

“From here we’ll go to Damascus, I’m guessing."

“From what the wounded man said, I think you’re right.”  

Aramis looks up to the clearing sky as he walks. “You know he’s the same one—"

“From Cresson Springs, yes. I recognized his face." They’re both quiet for a minute.

“I don’t know what to call you,” Aramis says.

“You know my name. You use it already.” 

Aramis kicks a rock out of the way. “I’m not calling you by your surname the entire way to Damascus."

They walk in silence for a few more yards and then Aramis hears, “Athos. Is what you can call me."

 

Their escort leads them to a small group of soldiers, each with more than one horse. Aramis looks around and sees at least a dozen other prisoners and at least ten Saracens. Aside from the horses there are two tall camels, one with goatskins of water slung from his back and one on which sits the man Aramis bandaged just a few hours ago. There are straps around his waist and over his hips, holding him in the saddle, no doubt. He waves Aramis over.

The big Saracen has lost a lot of blood, but the area around the wound is sticky and clotting. It’s a good sign and Aramis says as much. The Saracen meets his eyes and stares at him. Aramis doesn’t flinch away.

“I’m Aramis,” he says, his speech unrushed and even. “If this starts bleeding again, or if it starts to hurt more, you tell them to find me.”  This man has let them live twice now. First at Cresson and again here, at Hattin, when he told no one of Aramis’ monks’ robes. Aramis thinks about the chances that the big man might die before they get to Damascus and knows that he’ll do anything he can to help the odds.

“It is my good fortune to have captured a physician.” His French has improved since Cresson.

Aramis frowns and looks around. “Nothing about this day was good fortune."

“The other. Your protector."

“Athos?"

“Athos,” the Saracen repeats. “Aramis.” His head is sagging to the side a bit. He’s exhausted, Aramis can see it on his face. “If you wish to check on the bandages, tell your guard to take you to see Porthos."

“Porthos,” Aramis says, and puts his hand over his heart, inclining his head. Porthos does the same, but his head doesn’t come back up. The rise and fall of his chest is steady; he’s unconscious. Given the pain he must be in, Aramis is surprised he lasted this long.

 

When the caravan sets off, Athos and Aramis are each given a horse and left unbound. They ride unfettered, keeping pace with the camels and other horses.

“No ropes for us?” Athos asks.

“We have Porthos to thank for that, I’m sure."

“Is that his name? Our captor?” Aramis nods. “Well, I suppose there is the risk we would slip and be dragged behind for miles. That would make us much less attractive at the slave market."

Aramis frowns. “Do you think that’s what he’ll do with us?"

Athos looks at the soldiers and guards around them. “We’re no good for ransom. I have no one who would pay and you would have to let them know what you are. You would be killed immediately."

Clapping him on the shoulder, Aramis smiles. “Still, chances are quite good we’ll die on the road and not have to worry about ransom _or_ slave markets."

Athos stares at him as they ride. When he speaks his tone is dry as smoke. “Yes. That is a comfort."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with the historical battle bits, I had such a blast doing the research and figuring out where they all fit in and I hope it shows. Also, thank you so much to everyone who commented, I've been nervous about this one and it was great to see notes from people enjoying it!


	3. i shall give you the journey

_Should he give you a lantern, I_   
_will give you the moon_   
_Should he give you a branch_   
_I will give you the trees_   
_And if another gives you a ship_   
_I shall give you the journey._

-Nizar Qabbani

~

Porthos remembers almost nothing of the first days of the journey. He has glimpses, brief flashes, the sight of Aramis bending over his injured leg in the afternoon sun, the smell of garlic, and the quiet whisper of prayers in Latin. Otherwise, he sleeps, strapped into his saddle and lulled by the motion of his mount. There is no infection at first, his body is simply too tired to fight both to keep cool and to heal. He wakes at night, when the small group of horses and his camel has stopped, and the evening has grown cool.

His brothers gather what wood they can for the fire,; they eat in the late hours of long shadows and pray at sunset. When the chores and devotions are past, they settle in around the fire for stories and talk. It’s the same stories they’ve been telling for years, plus a couple of new ones from the recent fights, but to Porthos they’re like a balm.

On the fourth day he finds himself listing in his saddle. That night he barely remembers being helped to the ground, and wakes long after dark. Every day, Aramis has insisted on checking his bandages, and tonight he grumbles about having to do it by firelight. 

He’s peeling back the bandages as he talks. “I can barely see my hand in front of my—” he breaks off suddenly, leaning in and smelling the flesh. The rest is a rapid-fire stream of French that Porthos doesn’t even begin to understand. 

“Slower,” Porthos says. 

“Infection,” Aramis says. “You have an infection setting in. Likely that is why you’re feeling worse today." 

One of Porthos’ comrades has come closer and is asking questions. Porthos explains to him what Aramis has said and when Matar glares at Aramis, Porthos reminds him that some of the Franks have studied the Arab teachings on healing. They are not _all_ likely to cut off the limb at the first sign of festering. Just most of them. 

Matar asks what is to be done next and Porthos can barely keep his eyes open long enough to ask Aramis and translate his answer. 

“Water,” Porthos tells Matar. “Water and wine and honey."

After that, everything is black.

 

When he wakes again, Porthos is on the ground. He’s laying on a blanket, shaded from the sun by the body of his camel. Aramis is kneeling next to him, examining the dressings over his wound and talking. He’s talking _at_ Porthos as much as _to_ him, and Porthos wonders if this is a nervous habit of his or if he is so starved for company that he is creating his own. 

“You should have been awake to hear us talk. Your man could not get wine and also could not believe you had said honey. My language skills are not bad, but even I do not know how to say ‘bee’ in your tongue." He’s poking at the edges of Porthos’ wound as he speaks. "I had to settle for buzzing and flapping my imaginary wings.” 

Porthos wants to laugh but it just comes out as a sigh. “Fool,” he says, and his voice is barely a rasp, no trace of the amusement he feels at the visual Aramis’ words give him.

Aramis draws back, his eyes colder now. “I think I preferred you asleep.”  He turns to leave but Porthos grabs his tunic.

“How—” His mouth is so dry. “How long?"

Aramis looks at Porthos’ hand holding him in place. “We’ve been on the road for four days." 

Porthos frowns and tries to figure out how fast they’re going. He looks around him but everywhere looks the same when his brain is this muzzy. “Two more days. Perhaps three." 

“We are going to Damascus, then?” Aramis asks. Porthos frowns again, trying to pull his energy together to answer. Before he can even open his mouth he’s asleep again. 

 

Being lifted on to the camel again wakes Porthos. His leg hurts, worse than any pain he’s ever felt, but gone is that horrible throbbing burn and the fog in his mind. Today, for the first time, he can reach out and take the reins himself. Matar still ties him to the saddle, and even Porthos can’t argue that it’s a pointless measure to take. 

“Our guests,” Porthos says. “How far away are they?”  Matar points to a spot behind them, within eyesight still but far enough away that the Franks can’t hear them. “Did he really ask for honey?"

“Yes, and I had to ride to two farms to try and find it." 

“Did he really ask by buzzing like a bee?" 

Matar rolls his eyes and scowls. “These infidels can’t even be bothered to learn some of our language and yet they think to command and occupy our land? Yes, he acted a prancing idiot to make his point known and I was happy to get the honey to him and be rid of his conversation." 

“Did you think to thank him for taking measures to save my life?” Porthos asks and Matar stares daggers at him before turning away. 

Porthos tugs his camel around and heads for the back of the column and the two heads bent together in conversation. Aramis has his head turned to Athos as he talks, but Athos is looking all around them. He’s still listening, still offering his own input, but he’s also watching the horizon, checking the sky for the weather, and watching Porthos approach. 

The conversation ceases as he rides closer. His leg is hurting again, the quickened pace on the camel was a mistake. He tries to keep it from his face but knows there must be at least a grimace. 

“How is the pain?” Aramis asks, in place of greeting 

Porthos knows that some of his own men can still hear him and he’d rather not have them fussing any more that they already are. He lies. 

“Hardly any." 

Aramis frowns. “I want to look at it the next time we stop." 

Porthos inclines his head. “I’d expect nothing less.”  They ride in silence for a minute. “Honey?” Porthos asks. 

Athos looks between them both, trying to figure out the part of the conversation he missed. 

“Yes,” Aramis says. “If it is good enough to put on the wounds of the Pharaohs, surely it could do some good for you. It helps to treat infections, I’ve found, and it can keep new infection from starting." 

Porthos nods. He’s starting to feel tired again but he needs to get back to the front of the pack first.  

“You should return to the front before you fall down,” Athos says and Porthos jerks his head around, staring at Athos. He tries to figure out if he’d spoken aloud, but Athos only shrugs. “You wake and feel better and your first inclination is to prove how healthy you are. Your men won’t suspect, but from here I can see it on your face.”  

There is a battle between Athos and Porthos to see who will give something away first. Athos concedes. “I’ve spent enough time around soldiers the morning after carousing. I know what a man hiding pain looks like." 

“And how does he look?” Porthos asks.

Athos looks at him, meets his eyes and then takes in the whole of him. “Your skin has grown grayer while you’ve been riding here with us, the lines around your mouth are deeper, too. Your shoulders have drawn up, but you’re hiding it by resting your elbow on the front of your saddle. And there’s sweat on your forehead even though there is a breeze today. ” He curls one side of his mouth in a half-smile. “Rest. I think neither of us wants to deal with Aramis if you make yourself worse." 

Porthos wants to say something, he wants to tell Athos that he doesn’t need to be coddled, that he knows these two are only hoping to spare their own lives, but that he appreciates it anyway. He knows, though, that his minutes of dignified wakefulness can be counted on one hand at this point. He jerks a nod to both of them and heads back to the head of the column. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness for the rest of the afternoon but he’s awake when they stop for the night. Matar helps roll out his bedding and braces Porthos while Porthos lowers himself to the blanket. Exhausted, Porthos just rests for a minute but his eyes pop open at the sound of approaching footsteps.  

It’s Aramis, with Athos in tow. Porthos snorts. “You’ve brought your protector? I am hardly a danger."

Aramis kneels beside Porthos on the blanket but Athos remains standing, looking around him, scanning the faces of Porthos’ men. “Nonsense,” Athos says. “You are under the finest medical care. Surely you will heal faster than any man in history and be back in the field tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were leading a charge later tonight.” His tone is dry and deadpan and Porthos can’t help but grin. Aramis is looking down at the bandage and misses the smile.

Aramis’ touch is careful as he pulls the fabric back. “I’m afraid I had to open the wound again to apply the paste, the knitting edges were holding the infection in. It’s still open.” He turns to look at Porthos. “You think one more day of travel?"

Porthos nods. “A full day tomorrow, and then we should reach the city the next morning."

Aramis pulls the dressing back over the wound. “When we arrive and you no longer have to ride, I’ll clean off the paste and sew the edges closed, you should feel better faster after that." 

“There are physicians in Damascus.” It isn’t a question, but Porthos can’t keep the curiosity from his voice. Why should this dark-eyed stranger concern himself with the wellbeing of his enemy?

“Yes,” Aramis says. “But you are _my_ patient.” He drops his chin to his chest and when he speaks again his voice is very quiet. “Being a healer on the battlefield is a fool’s errand, Porthos. In the last year I have lost more men than I can count. I don’t know what your plans are for us when we get to Damascus, but please. Let me do this first." 

Porthos is startled by Aramis’ speech, by his conviction and by a sense of purpose that transcends ties to country or commander. Porthos isn’t unfamiliar with the Hospitallers; when they’d first come to the region they’d been devoted to providing care and protection to Christian pilgrims. Aramis, it seems, still feels this calling in his soul.

He looks at Aramis, really looks at him for what is likely the first time. His hair is curling around his ears and at the back of his neck. His eyebrows are drawn together and his jaw is set for disappointment. He reminds Porthos of one of the boys he’d known as a child, all wild curls and stubborn chin. Porthos had loved Ishaq’s laugh and he wonders if Aramis’ sounds anything like it. 

“Tell me what you need,” Porthos says. “I’ll have the supplies brought."

Aramis’ head comes up and he blinks, turning his surprised eyes to Porthos. “Thread. Silk, if possible, and a fine needle. Honey and turmeric.” Porthos nods and Aramis’ voice drops to nearly a whisper. “Thank you,” he says.

Athos’ voice startles Porthos; he’d been just a quiet presence at the edge of Porthos’ vision. “Have we been given to you?" 

Porthos sees those eyes, pale in the deepening dark of the evening. “It’s customary for the sultan to reward his men."

“I’ve never been anyone’s idea of a reward,” Athos says and it startles a laugh out of Porthos. Aramis draws back, surprised again.

“Will we be sold?” Athos asks, the change in his tone nearly imperceptible. “Kept as servants?" 

Porthos never sells men. He could, there is no law against it according to his god or his leader, but the idea of trading in people has never sat well with him. But what he does do with them isn’t information for Porthos’ fellow soldiers to know, and if he tells Aramis and Athos now, at least a half-dozen men will overhear.  

“Concern yourself with that when we get to Damascus,” Porthos says. “It’s not worth thinking about before then.”  He turns to Aramis. “Are you finished?” He’s so tired and he knows he’s being terse with them but right now he’s too exhausted even to apologize.

“Yes,” Aramis says. “We’re done here.” Standing, he and Athos leave. As they walk away, Athos spares a backward glance, meeting Porthos’ eyes but not saying a word.

Matar brings Porthos something to eat and he forces himself to stay awake long enough to wolf it down. While he eats, he watches the scene around the fire. 

The Franks talk among themselves if they talk at all. For the most part they stare, furtive and suspicious, as if they believe the talk is of how Porthos and the other soldiers might murder them in their sleep. Porthos pays most of them no mind, but he can’t help but watch the two who just left him.

Aramis watches the ground, his rosary, the stars. He seems to be somehow at peace with the journey. He has given up his fate to his god and no earthly power can shake him now. Porthos watches his hands, long slender fingers moving over the beads again and again and the way his mouth forms the words of his prayers. When Aramis looks at Athos his eyes are bright and curious. 

Athos watches everything. Porthos is sure, if asked, Athos could retrace the journey back to Hattin with one eye closed. He is watching the fire, the mountains beyond their little camp, and the movements of every man around the circle. When his gaze flicks to Porthos, Porthos meets his eyes and does not flinch. Athos’ eyes are fathomless in the dark. His face is not wearing the same bitter frown as so many of the rest of the captured men. He’s simply taking everything in, quietly, calmly. There is something alive in his look now, though, something Porthos didn’t see even on the face of the battle-hungry warrior who first charged at him two months ago. 

At ‘Ain Juzah, Athos had ridden toward Porthos as though every other avenue was closed to him; he’d been caustic and bitter even as Aramis had helped him onto the horse. Here, now, Athos is looking at everything as though a corridor, which had been blank and endless before, now suddenly has door upon door down its length just waiting for him to open. 

The rest of the Franks are understandably angry, sullen, distrustful. Athos and Aramis both behave as though this is the first interesting thing that has happened to them in many years. Porthos thinks of the moment to come, when they reach his home and he gives the captured men back their freedom. He’s done this before, each time he’s been given spoils like this, but each time it feels a little different. Sometimes he is pleased to let good men return to their families, other times he is fearful of letting angry men return to their armies, but he has never mourned their leaving. 

This is different, somehow. When Athos and Aramis leave, Porthos thinks he might miss them.

 

There’s still pain, the next morning, but Porthos’ head feels even clearer than the day before, and he’s able to keep his energy up for a few hours at a time. He focuses on riding, on taking in the countryside and thinking about how close he is to home, to his own bed and the sounds of his city. They stop for food, for midday prayers, to wait out some of the worst heat of the day. Porthos naps in some shade and when he wakes, Aramis is beside him, Athos his ever-present companion. 

“Better,” Aramis pronounces. “Now we have to hope that with the infection gone, the tissues can mend properly.” He ties the bandage again. “It will be a long recovery, the muscle needs to knit together again.”  

Porthos touches Aramis’ forearm. When Aramis looks up, Porthos smiles at him. “Thank you.” Aramis is staring at him, his lips parted and his breaths quick for a moment until he shakes it off almost visibly. Porthos thinks back on his behavior for the last few days, what of it he can remember, and wonders how horrible a first impression he must have made for Aramis to be thrown so far off guard by a smile. 

“You thank me now, but weeks from now when it’s still a chore to walk, years from now when it aches with the coming rain, you’ll see that I have the easy job." 

Grinning, Porthos says, “Soon we’ll be in Damascus, and once I’m in my home with my gardens and my books and the smells and sounds of the city around me, this recovery can take as long as it likes." 

Athos scoffs. “Or at least as long as your commander allows.”  Porthos spares a grin for him as well and watches Athos’ face crease and brighten as he smiles back. He’s still staring at Athos’ smile when Aramis starts speaking.

“Most often the only people more eager to have my patients out fighting again than their commanders are the men themselves. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard one say he was content to relax and get better. You’re quite an extraordinary patient, Porthos.” Aramis smiles at him now too. 

Porthos can feel the heat of the day making his neck sweat, can feel sweat plaster his tunic to his back and see the land in the distance shimmer in the sun, but he knows the flush of warmth to his face has nothing to do with the sun. 

“I’ll check on it again when we stop for the night,” Aramis says and Porthos can only nod. He looks up at Athos only to see Athos turn his smile on Aramis.  

“Of course,” Porthos says. 

 

He’s halfway through his evening meal when Aramis comes to inspect the wound. 

“Have you eaten?” Porthos asks and Aramis looks at him, confused somehow by the words. “Your meal, have you had it yet?" 

“No,” Athos says, squatting next to Aramis on the blanket this time, not looming over them both. “Usually they wait until you and your men have eaten your fill and divide what’s left among us."

Porthos waves over one of the young men, one still new enough to the Sultan’s service to be scared of a soldier with as many years under his belt as Porthos. “Bring food for them,” he says. The young man looks as confused as Aramis and Athos, but he nods and goes to bring them their portion. 

“It’s dark already,” Porthos says, “and you’ll be looking at the wound by lamplight no matter when. So eat first.”  In the distance, Porthos can hear a rider setting out and then the beat of hooves fading in the distance. 

“Someone’s leaving?” Aramis asks Porthos, but it’s Athos who answers.

“We’ll make Damascus before midday tomorrow. I’m guessing that was an advance rider sent to inform the necessary people of the party's arrival." 

Porthos grins at him, “That’s right. He’ll tell the men at the —“ Porthos searches for the right word in French. “He’ll tell the men at the citadel. They’ll send riders out to our homes. If my—“ he’s searching for the right word again. Eventually he gives up. “If my house are worth what I pay them, they’ll send a small wagon to the city gates to meet me. I wouldn’t take a horse into those streets, let alone my fine spitting friend over there.” He jerks a thumb to where his camel is standing.

It’s an odd moment. The prisoners and their captor sharing a quiet meal and conversation and none of them discussing how soon they might all go separate ways.  

Athos looks to the north, to their destination. “I’ve never been,” he says. 

“To Damascus?” Porthos asks. He looks north, too, as if he could see the city walls beyond the darkness if he only stared hard enough. “I was not born there, I didn’t even come to live there until I was nearly a man, but Damascus is where I am from. It’s my home.”  He meets Aramis’ look and smiles. “I miss the way it smells. There are gardens everywhere and you can smell them even in the darkest, narrowest streets. The walls of the buildings around you may be three stories tall and made of nothing but mud, but you can still smell orange trees and jasmine."

He shifts, wiggling his good leg, rolling his heel against the ground, wincing as it jostles the wound on the other leg. At first Porthos things he must be boring them, but it must be better than sitting with the other Franks, because both of them are still listening. Athos has turned away from the view and is looking at Porthos again, his face curious and interested. 

“When I first saw the house I live in now, it was the garden that caught my heart before anything else. After that it was the fountain.”  He grins and picks up a nearby twig, digging into the dirt with it. “I miss that, too. The fountains. There’s hardly a street or park or garden in the city without a fountain and at night, when even the birds are asleep, you can hear water all night long. I’d grown so used to the sound…” He trails off and Athos finishes for him.

“You had trouble sleeping when you were away?”   

Porthos nods. 

Athos brings one foot in so he can prop his elbow on his knee. He’s peeling bark off a twig with his thumbnail. “I was the opposite. The place I lived was silent at night. Like a tomb.” He takes a deep breath. “When I boarded the ship, when I got here, I would lay awake at night and wonder how anyone ever slept with so much noise." 

Dropping his head back, feeling the cool breeze of the night on his face, Aramis asks, “Are you more used to it now?" 

“I suppose,” Athos says, tossing the twig away. “I don’t think I know. Here my days are so full that when night finally comes, I’m asleep almost before I lay down.” He smiles just a little. "All the forces of both our armies could march through my rooms at night and I wouldn’t know, so long as they didn’t leave a mess in their wake."

Aramis laughs and Porthos jerks his head up to see it. He sounds nothing like the friend of Porthos’ youth, but it’s glorious nonetheless. Athos is smiling wider now, broad and open. There’s a lull in the wake of Aramis’ laugh but it’s an easy quiet. 

“You need to rest,” Aramis says, before much more than a minute has passed. Porthos feels a little twang in his belly and is surprised to note how much he was enjoying their company. The two prisoners stand and return to the area where the other Franks have already bedded down. Porthos doesn’t get up, he just watches them walk away. 

On the battlefield, Aramis is rash, Porthos has seen it twice, but around the fire or here on Porthos’ blanket in quiet conversation, the monk in him is plain. Porthos wonders if those two parts of him war in his heart. The one constant, whether he’s being impulsive or patient, is that he seems to be always trying to help. Porthos can’t know for sure, but there must be some compassion in Aramis for him to spend this much time caring for a man his commander would call a heathen dog.  

Athos has been Aramis’ constant protector, and Porthos is beginning to believe that it’s not entirely because Aramis helped him at ‘Ain Juzah. He wonders if Athos would admit that he enjoys their company. Or perhaps he’s only perceptive about things other than himself. The man hears everything, but more than that, he listens. Something in Athos’ mind never stops working, Porthos can see it behind his eyes, and it makes Porthos want to take Athos to every war council and strategy meeting he ever has just to hear Athos’ thoughts after they leave. 

He’ll give them both their freedom as soon as they’re inside the city. Aramis will stay until he’s finished with what he wants to do for Porthos’ leg, but a part of Porthos hopes they might both stay for a meal before they go. They’ll have their first glimpse of Damascus tomorrow and Porthos wants to hear Aramis talk about what he saw and Athos talk about all the things Aramis missed. He tries to imagine what that meal would be like, but he’s asleep even before he can decide what they would eat.

 

Porthos tries to argue against being roped into the saddle the next day, but Matar rightly points out that it would be foolish to get this close to the city only to fall and set back his recovery even further. He can see Aramis and Athos mounting their horses, riding side by side but not speaking. A small but growing part of him wishes they were up here with him. 

He knows they’re close to home, because the land around them grows greener and greener as they ride. The walls come into view first, ringing the city, and Porthos can picture every one of the eight gates in his mind. Ignoring the few glances spared to him by his fellow soldiers, Porthos slows the pace of his camel and drops back until he is riding alongside Athos.  

“Are you well?” Aramis asks, and Porthos can see the concern on his face. 

“I— it’s a little sore, but it can wait for another hour or two until we are inside the city. You can see it coming now. We’ll go in through the Gate of Victory, it’s closest to the Citadel and most of the soldiers from my army will stop there."

“What about the Christians?” Athos asks.  

Porthos doesn’t know how to answer that. Some of the Arabs will send their Franks to the slave market; others will hold them for ransom. Porthos doesn’t ask, he only knows what happens to the men who are his spoils. “For most of them, that’s not up to me. Just for you two and five others.”  

“So you’ll grow rich off those ransoms?” Athos’ voice is getting pinched now, and more than a little tense.  

Porthos looks at him. “Any prisoner who’s worth a ransom big enough to make me rich probably never made it out of the Sultan’s grasp, let alone into this sad little caravan.”  He flashes a grin to try and diffuse the tension. Before either Athos or Aramis can reply, Porthos sits up straighter in his saddle and points to the horizon. “You can see the minarets now." 

Aramis is scanning the view, trying to pick out the tall, thin stone towers. As they ride closer, Porthos tells them about the things they can see above the top of the walls and about how it had been to see the gate rebuilt recently, newer but not as fancy as the other seven. Before he knows it, Porthos is riding his mount through the city gate, and up into the courtyard of the citadel. He lets Matar and two others help him down, and scans the crowd for a familiar face. 

“Hamid!” he says, and lifts one hand from Matar’s shoulder to wave the man over. 

His head of household looks horrified to see Porthos bandaged and unable to stand on his own. He rushes over and starts fussing over Porthos. 

“Enough of that. Enough! Did you bring a cart?”  Hamid nods and gestures to where one is waiting in the corner along with two strong boys from the kitchen. He takes Porthos’ weight and helps him over to it. “And did you get my message about the supplies?”  Another nod from Hamid. 

“We had them in the house already, I’ve laid them out in your room."

“Good man,” Porthos says, clapping him on the shoulder. He waves Aramis over and isn’t surprised when Athos comes as well. Together the three of them get him safely onto the cart. “Hamid, Aramis will be coming back to the house with us, he’s the physician who requested the supplies.”  He ignores Hamid’s frown but he can’t ignore the protests from Athos. 

“I’m going as well.”  

Aramis turns to stare at Athos. “You’re still protecting me?" 

“Perhaps it’s just for the pleasure of your company.” He doesn’t smile, his mouth doesn’t even twitch. Aramis turns to Porthos and rolls his eyes. Unlike Athos, Porthos can’t hide his grin.  

“I stand corrected, Hamid. Both Aramis and Athos will be our guests.” He lowers his voice so no other Arabs can hear. “I will go back to the house with the cart, can you stay here and make sure the other Franks under my control get the usual treatment?”  Hamid nods and Porthos thanks him again. “Well,” he says to Aramis and Athos. “Are we going?" 

Athos watches Hamid walk further into the citadel and then turns to Porthos. His eyes are harder than Porthos has seen them since they left Hattin. “For days now you’ve avoided answering me, I did notice, but now I must insist. Call it a last wish, if you want. What will happen to the others? What is ’the usual treatment'?" 

“The ‘usual treatment’ is that Hamid will give each of them enough coin for a meal set them free. What happens to them after that? I've got no idea.”  Porthos looks up from where he’s been tugging a thread loose from his tunic. Athos and Aramis are staring at him, mouths open. He wonders which of them will find his voice first.

 


	4. to reshape the geometry of my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We have been dragged across the desert for a week to reach a city where you can dispose of us as you see fit, and you are _surprised_ to find that I don’t believe you are willing to let us all go free now that we're here? At worst you are lying, planning to chain us or sell us at the first opportunity. At best you are someone who toys with his prey."
> 
> Everything alight behind Porthos’ eyes goes dark. “I can’t figure out which one of those you’re hoping is true."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't meant to take this long, y'all. A business trip out of town and some extremely pushy customers put me over my deadline. Next bit sooner, I promise. Oh, and I think the next bit is where we start earning our rating.

Athos narrows his eyes. 

“You don’t believe me?” Porthos asks.

He has spent the last few hours, every second they drew closer to the city, berating himself for having let his guard down. On the road, with so many new things bombarding him, Athos felt alive in a way he hadn’t since the trip from France. The thrill of the journey left him open to Porthos’ easy smile and the way he spoke to Aramis, but the reality is that Athos knows nothing of this stranger except that, in the strange way war sometimes works, they now belong to him. He has the legal right, in this city, to buy and sell men like grain. Porthos is an unknown, an enemy soldier, and Athos has spent the morning being furious with himself for forgetting that in the face of Porthos’ charm. His frustration comes spilling out when he answers.

“We have been dragged across the desert for a week to reach a city where you can dispose of us as you see fit, and you are _surprised_ to find that I don’t believe you are willing to let us all go free now that we're here? At worst you are lying, planning to chain us or sell us at the first opportunity. At best you are someone who toys with his prey."

Everything alight behind Porthos’ eyes goes dark. “I can’t figure out which one of those you’re hoping is true, Christian. Look, whether you believe me or not, I’ve given my word in front of witnesses that Aramis will be allowed his final treatment of the wound."

“But you won’t swear to the other where there might be witnesses?” Athos asks, and though he knows if Porthos is telling the truth it’s likely not something he wants his comrades to know, it still confuses him. He has no idea how to react to a man willing to go so completely against convention and the customs of his army. How does Athos trust that man? A man who promises the world, but only when no one else can hear.

When Porthos speaks again, the flatness in his voice is chilling. “Believe me or not, I don’t care. I made a promise to Aramis and in order keep that promise we need to go."

Porthos turns away from them, waving for his servants to start moving the cart out of the Citadel gates and down the street and yelling a few last orders to Hamid. Athos turns to Aramis to get his thoughts on the exchange, but he’s not prepared for how angry, how hurt, Aramis looks.

“I’m trying to protect us,” Athos says.

“By insulting and questioning the honor of the man who holds our lives in his hands?"

“I didn’t say a word that wasn’t true."

Aramis glares at him then walks away, following the cart. That Aramis is hurt stings more than Porthos’ words.

 

Porthos falls asleep on the cart almost as soon as they set off, Aramis is both enthralled by Damascus around them and still angry with Athos, so Athos has only his thoughts to keep him company as they walk through the streets.

There are more people here than he's seen in once place since leaving France. He's dodging children as they weave around him, laughing and shouting to their friends. Athos tries to imagine himself ever that free. That happy and loud. There must have been a time, when he was very young, perhaps. Too young for him to remember. His mother might have known. She might have had a story about her boys running through the kitchens leaving havoc in their wake, but she's been gone for over twenty years at this point. 

The mothers of these children are watching them with indulgent smiles, and Athos wonders if his mother ever smiled at him like that. He can barely remember her face. He recalls her voice, though, and how it had sounded when she called his name.

Shaking off the memory, Athos watches the road, listens to the voices around him and tries to pick out a few familiar words. Aramis is quiet and Athos wonders if he has managed to sink the only friendship he has in the world. If they are to be freed, then perhaps being rid of Athos would be for the best for Aramis in the long run, but Athos will miss the letters.

The cart goes over a stone in the road and it jostles Porthos who moans a bit in his sleep. Athos looks at him, his eyes closed and his face drawn. He seems so much smaller when he’s not smiling or laughing or talking. Still beautiful, though. Athos pulls that thought from his mind and crushes it in his fist. 

They've passed out of view of the citadel and on either side of the street houses stretch above him, shading the road, sounds spilling out of their windows. Conversation and music and laughter fill spaces and echo off the walls. There are cooking smells, things Athos' nose can't identify and his stomach rumbles.

Their strange little group stops in front of a door that looks like every other door on the street. Porthos startles awake when one of the servants knocks on the door and tries to smile at the face that looks down at them from one of the ornately carved window screens jamming the top two stories. He does his best to sit up and takes Aramis’ hand when it’s offered. 

Athos can smell the plants as soon as the door opens. Lemon trees and jasmine and sweet blossoms he can’t quite place. He remembers Porthos talking about those smells and he forces himself not to smile at the memory.

The narrow hall empties them not into a room but rather into a large courtyard. Athos stares at the ground, the intricately tiled patterns leading in all directions, mimicking the twist of vines up the columns that surround them. In the center, like Porthos had described, is a fountain, burbling in the sun and splashing the stones around it until they are shiny.

When he turns, Athos catches sight of Porthos’ face, and it’s almost enough to pull him in again. Porthos looks transported. Years and battles and agonies have fallen away, and he is standing, one arm slung over Aramis’ shoulders, and smiling at his garden. “We could do it out here?"

“No,” Aramis says. “As beautiful as this is, you will need to be still during and after, not getting up and moving to your bed."

“I don’t—"

“You are exhausted, you slept the entire ride here even with half the world’s rocks under the wheels of the cart.” Aramis’ voice is stern and chiding, and Athos feels a grin tug at his mouth before he can snatch it back, thankfully they both miss it.

Servants have come from the rooms ringing the courtyard, happy to see Porthos but dismayed by his injury. They take his arm, pull him from Aramis, and help him up the stairs at the far end.

Before he turns to follow them, Aramis looks at Athos. “I shouldn’t have snapped. You were only looking out for us, I know."

It gives Athos no joy. “We simply can’t take him at his every word. Even now he could tell people what you are, he could have you turned over to the commanders at the Citadel and publicly executed."

Aramis bristles again. “And you thought that calling his honor into question was the way to prevent that?"

“Perhaps some of my words could have been better chosen."

Aramis shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s the monster you believe him to be.” And that’s just it, part of what had drawn Athos out while they were traveling was how open Aramis was. Aramis believes in Porthos, and that was almost enough to lure Athos to do the same. 

‘You like him,’ Athos thinks. ‘You like him, but you also like me, so what does that say about your judgment?'

Porthos’ room is on the level above the courtyard, looking out over the garden and the fountain. He probably can’t see them from his bed, but at night when the noises are still, Athos bets that Porthos can hear the water. There are embroidered hangings on the walls and thick rugs beside the bed. On the table in the corner is a book and Athos’ fingers twitch with the urge to touch it. 

Grimacing as he is lowered down onto the bed, Porthos goes gray with pain and Hamid wipes away a layer of sweat from his forehead. Porthos says a few words to the man on his left, and the man turns, handing Aramis a small bundle wrapped in linen.

“Perfect, exactly what I asked for.” He looks up at Porthos, his eyes bright and then turns to the servant and asks for water, first in English and then in Arabic. The servant looks surprised. Aramis smiles. “I don’t know much, but ‘water’ is a useful word to have.” 

Athos watches as Porthos says a few more words to the servant and ends by thanking him. The silence, while they wait for the man to return, is painfully awkward. There is grit in his mouth from the trip, and Athos can feel it against his teeth when he swallows or speaks; it’s the only think keeping him from grinding his teeth. His eyes are dry, and his feet hurt, and he is so, so tired. He’s swaying on his feet as if the horse were still under him.

He wants to go— well, he wants to go home. An impossible wish. There is no home, no place to go when he feels like he’s been scraped out. His lands in France are gone, sold to a minor relation to pay for the trip here. Athos hadn’t planned on returning, even if there were something to go back to besides painful memories and empty rooms. For months now he’s lived life as a nomad, following his commanders from one fort to another, staying in one place for more than a few days only when he’d been injured at Cresson Springs. There's nothing of 'home' to his quarters at Kerak, a bare room with a table and chair and not much else. Even his letters from Aramis aren’t there, they’re in his saddlebag. 

The servant is back with a pitcher of water and Aramis takes it, bending low over Porthos’ leg. He unwraps the bandages and pours the water over the wound, letting the linen soak it up. Porthos hisses, gripping the bedding on either side of him and grunting, but otherwise, he’s impossibly still.

Athos watches Aramis work, cleaning off the old paste and inspecting the wound, and remembers what else had been in his saddlebags. Nothing important, really. Some clothes and his bowl and spoon. Beeswax and tallow and worn cloths to clean his leather and mail. Some oats for the horse and cheese and bread for Athos, in case they found themselves far from food. More, of course, but most of it easily replaced. 

The letters, though. A flicker of light in these dark years and now they’re gone. Given how angry Aramis is with him, there will surely be no more. His book was in there as well. A silly thing, an indulgence from another time. Not a loss to linger on. He tells himself this and tries not to think about the feeling of the pages under his fingers and the sweetness of the story.

On the bed, Aramis has threaded silk into his needle and is telling Porthos that his men will need to hold him down. He’s smiling, doing his best to stay lighthearted. “This won’t hurt as much as the sword did, but still, let’s not take chances when my face is in striking distance, eh?” He turns to wave Athos over. “Come hold the edges."

Porthos’ skin is hot under his fingers. The hairs on his thigh are scratchy against Athos’ palms, and he’s still damp enough from the water that Athos is able to get a good grip. He gasps when Athos touches him, grits out a few words that Athos doubts translate directly into anything polite, and begins to pray. None of the words are audible, but Porthos’ lips form them over and over. The pain of Athos holding the wound together must be bad enough that Porthos doesn’t notice the needle going in because the prayers don’t change as Aramis sews the edges together. 

They have to move once, Athos repositioning his hands and Aramis taking up the needle from another angle. When Athos pulls at the skin of Porthos’ thigh again, Porthos grunts, his hand coming down on Athos’ shoulder and squeezing tight. He must not know he’s doing it, it’s hardly something he’d do voluntarily given their earlier exchange, so Athos ignores it, lets Porthos dig his strong fingers in around the bones as he gasps and starts his prayers again.

By the time Aramis is finished, Athos is sure he’s going to have a bruise for every one of Porthos’ fingers, but the cut is closed. Mixing the honey and turmeric, Aramis spreads a layer of the paste over the stitches and wraps Porthos’ leg in the clean linen. He stands straight and stretches his back, looking down at his handiwork. Aramis opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Hamid comes through the door.

The words are rapid-fire Arabic, and Athos catches none of it. When Hamid is finished, Porthos says, so that Athos can Aramis can understand, “Tell them, please."

Hamid looks at them, distaste plain on his face. “The other Franks have been given coin and left to find their own way. I took them out of the citadel and showed them in which direction they should go to get to the city gate. Where they went after I left them is their choice."

Athos wants to trust this. He truly does. 

“You still don’t believe him?” Aramis is looking at Athos, exasperated. “You think he’s lying?"

It takes everything Athos has to keep the defeat out of his voice. “I think I’ve seen men change their minds before."

“ I don’t blame you,” Porthos says. His voice has, only a hint of the warm, charming man from their trip. "In this city, common people of all religions and countries greet each other and share the streets. We’re not common people. We’re soldiers. You’ve killed my comrades just like I killed yours, and we were both told by our leaders that we were doing the right thing. The just and holy thing."

"And yet you just let these men go, despite what my army has done to yours? Despite what they might still do?” Athos puts his hands on the footboard of the bed, leaning forward so Porthos can see the confusion on his face.

Porthos’ voice is like iron. “I won’t own men. And I won’t be party to someone else owning them.” Athos can hear the strength of that conviction, he can feel something behind it 

Athos puts his hands out, palms up as if in supplication, praying for an answer. “Then why bring them all this way? Why not just let them go on the road, or not take them at all?"

Porthos plants his fists on the bed on either side of his hips and juts his chest forward. In his condition, this is the closest he can come to backing Athos down. “Do you think this a common practice? This isn’t something we go spouting off to whoever happens to be in earshot. Do you know what would happen if they found out.” 

What would happen, Athos wonders. He turns it around and tries to imagine if the Ducs and Comtes who filled their coffers with the ransoms they’d been paid for Saracen prisoners found out that one among them had been letting men go free. 

“You wouldn’t be in a position to make that decision again,” Athos says. “Why should they waste spoils of war on someone who will only give them away?"

Something in Porthos’ face softens almost imperceptibly. “Right, exactly. No more prisoners for me means someone else is selling them.” He tries to adjust how he’s sitting on the bed and gasps in pain. Aramis reaches for him, but Hamid is there first, supporting Porthos as he sits forward. “And now it’s your turn to go."

Athos turns to Aramis and can tell immediately, by the look on Aramis’ face, that he’s about to make things complicated. This isn’t going to go well.

“If I go now, will you be trying to mount a horse tomorrow?” Aramis asks. His eyebrows are arched in question, but his tone says he already knows the answer.

“Hardly tomorrow!” Porthos laughs. “I can barely sit without help."

Aramis rakes his fingers through his hair, and it curls around his hands. “Fine. Can you promise me you won’t be trying to mount one next week?"

Porthos doesn’t answer. Aramis clears his throat. Porthos won’t meet his eyes. 

Athos is kicking himself. This is his fault, he should have grabbed Aramis on the battlefield and thrown him over the back of his horse and ridden as far and as fast as he could. He should have stood and fought, died even, rather than letting them get captured. He failed Aramis at every turn and now they’re here, and what Aramis is about to say will only prolong the failures.

“Aramis—“

“I’m staying,” Aramis says, cutting Athos off.

“What?” Porthos’ voice utterly bewildered and there’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows. 

Athos stalks over to Aramis, gripping him by the upper arm. He turns until his back is to Porthos and he speaks into Aramis’ ear the way he’d done when they were taken prisoner. “You can’t stay here. He’s indulged you but our time here is finished. The others have been set free, if we stay we are still his property and subject to his whims."

“Did you not hear what he said? Men aren’t property for him. And he’s hardly going to have us killed just because we won’t leave."

Athos frowns.

“You honestly think he would do that?” Aramis asks.

“I think he’s not the only person in this house, and every second we foolishly stay here is another second our lives are possibly in danger."

Aramis jerks his arm free. He opens his mouth to argue, but Porthos speaks first, a trace of almost amusement in his voice.

“Would it calm you to meet my physician, so you can see his skills for yourself? You can see if he’s up to your standards? When you’re satisfied, then you can leave.” Now the laughter in his tone is clearer. He’ll indulge this mad monk.

“Yes,” Aramis says. “That would be fine."

Porthos turns to speak to one of the servants and then to Hamid. "We'll send someone to the hospital to tell him. In the meantime, they’re preparing rooms for you and they’ll bring food to the iwan in the courtyard."

“Thank you,” Aramis says, inclining his head. “We’ll leave you to rest.” As he follows Hamid and Aramis out of the room, Athos wonders when his life got this far out of his hands.

 

They’re shown to an alcove along one side of the courtyard. Low couches and carved wooden chairs sit on the intricately tiled floor. Plants hang in baskets over their heads and the sounds of the fountain echo off the roof. A boy of perhaps eleven brings out trays of food for them. Dense bread and soft cheese sit on a plate with sliced melons and strips of fruit Athos has never seen before. There’s a bowl filled with cooked lamb chunks rubbed with herbs and a small plate of roasted eggplant. After weeks of campaign food and whatever was available on the road, Athos and Aramis set upon the spread like locusts. 

The boy comes back with a pitcher filled with water and a crock of rich syrup. He shows them how to add the syrup to the water and stir it and then pours them each a cup. It’s the perfect thing to complement the rich flavors of the lamb and the sharpness of the cheese. Aramis is making noises of pleasure in his throat, humming and groaning, and Athos finds himself watching Aramis’ mouth. 

He’d spent the weeks after Cresson remembering Aramis’ kindness, the warmth in his voice when he’d helped Athos to safety and seen to his wounds. Their letters were an indulgence, a chance to feel friendship in a world where loyalty is a commodity. Athos had felt warmed in his heart every time one of them arrived, thinking that this stranger, alone in all the world, cared about Athos’ life.

That’s all it was, he’d thought. Just that friendship and a chance to talk to someone else who was frustrated by the machinations of the leaders around them, who understood that a quiet day on watch was both a blessing and a curse. That’s all it was, right up to the moment he’d seen Aramis at La Sepphorie. The moment Athos realized that even with all their letters, he’d missed Aramis’ physical presence, had missed his face. 

Falling on his food like this, enjoying the flavors on his tongue, Aramis reminds Athos of the first boy Athos ever loved. The son of his father’s head groom had been the target of naked hero worship from Athos and his brother. Hugh would take them out into the fields and show them where to find wild honey and how to get to it without being stung, how to dribble it onto their fingers and straight into their mouths. Thomas had wanted to be Hugh. Athos, older than Thomas by three years, had wanted more than that.

He’d known better than to say anything, to do anything. Even as a young teenager, when a stiff breeze could make him hard, he’d known better. Athos had remembered the way the priest spoke about the two boys in the village who’d been caught together and that had been enough for him to keep his wants, his thoughts, his heart to himself.

Aramis is sucking juice from a melon from his thumb and Athos is grateful that these days he knows that in his hands love is a knife that leaves everyone bleeding. That cold reality is enough to keep him from reaching out to take Aramis’ hand and lick the place where the sauce from the lamb has run down the side of his wrist. 

After they eat, Aramis tells stories. He talks about his fellow Hospitallers, about the friends he had growing up, about his favorite horse. Athos slides down until the arm of the sofa is supporting his head and listens to Aramis speak.

 

How long he’s been asleep is impossible to tell, he only knows that when the boy who brought the food shakes his shoulder and Athos looks up to see Hamid glaring down at him, the sky is almost dark. Gesturing for them to follow, Hamid takes them back upstairs. He shows them to two rooms on an adjoining side of the courtyard from Porthos’ chambers, pointing to them each in turn and indicating which room is meant for them, showing them the pitchers of water and thin towels that have been set out for them to wash.

His duty dispatched, Hamid turns on his heel and leaves, heading for Porthos’ rooms. 

Through the arches that line the wall overlooking the courtyard Athos can see the doors to Porthos’ rooms thrown open, can just barely see Porthos himself asleep in bed. 

“I know you think you have to be here,” Athos starts.

“It’s not about that,” Aramis says.

“Then why are we here, Aramis? He has physicians."

Aramis grips the edge of one arch, closing his eyes and letting his head sag forward. “I don’t know. I only know that I can’t go back out there right now, Athos. I can’t do it. Not when there’s a chance to do good here, even for a little while."

Athos puts his hand on Aramis’ shoulder, feels his skin warm under the linen of his tunic. “You feel connected because he saved us, but you’ve saved him now, Aramis. If there ever was a debt, you’ve paid it."

“There’s more, there’s something… something about him. Surely you know it, too."

Alone in his room, snoring quietly, Porthos probably looks much as he did asleep on the cart or on the journey from Hattin, his face easy and his mouth soft instead of pinched in a frown. He looked nothing like the evil heathen preached about in the sermons that brought so many men here. When he’d laughed or spoken lovingly about his home and his city, Athos hadn’t seen a barbarian or a demon, he’d only seen a homesick man, in pain and missing his garden. 

Having spent the last few years in one Christian stronghold after another, Athos hasn’t met many Saracens personally except on the battlefield. He has no way of knowing if Porthos is really as unusual and extraordinary as Aramis suspects he is. Some part of Aramis wants Porthos to be a good man, and Athos doesn’t know what to feel about that. 

Why is it so much easier for Aramis? Why is it easier for Aramis trust, to be this open? They’ve seen the same evidence, they— and then he knows. To believe his instincts about Porthos like Aramis does, Athos has to forget the terrible consequences of following those instincts in the past. Aramis only has to trust Porthos. Athos has to trust himself. He has to move past every blood-soaked memory of how wrong he’s been with his faith before.

Athos can’t even imagine what it would take to get there, tries to think of what, short of a sign from God, would show him that it’s even possible. Even if it were, they’ll be gone as soon as the doctor arrives, hardly time for a miracle that would be wasted on him anyway.

This is foolish, he tells himself. Get some sleep.

“Good night, Aramis."

Sitting on the bed, Athos tugs his boots off and pulls his tunic over his head. He pours water from the pitcher into a bowl and soaks a linen cloth so he can wash. As he’s drawing it down over his arm, wiping away days of grit and grime, the candle flame shifts with a breeze from the open window and the light hitting something metallic catches his attention. He turns to look at the table under the other window.

Athos stands there, water dripping on the floor around him, mouth open and staring.

The chair in front of the table is pulled out and sitting in it, battered but still intact, still as full as when Athos packed it, is his saddlebag.


	5. the closed book of your eyes

_Who has hidden a thousand poems_  
_In the closed book of your eyes?_  
-Nizar Qabbani   
_~_

 

Despite having woken before dawn for more than a decade, and even with nearest mosque being only a few streets away, Aramis sleeps right through both the call to morning prayers and the sunrise. He doesn’t wake until the birds in the courtyard start singing. While he tries, fruitlessly, to remember the last time he stayed in bed so late, the rest of his senses come awake. He’s surrounded by the warm linen of his bedding, the smell of citrus from the garden, and the golden light of morning spilling into the room through the open windows. 

Today the doctor will come and Aramis will hand over his patient and he and Athos will be on their way. Where he will wake up tomorrow is anyone’s guess, but he’s certain it won’t be this comfortable, so Aramis stretches luxuriantly. He curls his toes into the soft bedding, burrows his face into the pillow, and feels the breeze on his skin.

He’s considering going back to sleep for a bit, he’s got another half an hour before he absolutely can’t wait any longer for the chamber pot, when there’s a knock on his door. It’s the boy from the night before, here to refill his water pitcher and bring him a clean cloth to wash with; a minute behind him is Athos.

“I am so used to being up before the sun, I feel positively decadent,” Aramis says.

Athos snorts. 

Grinning, Aramis pulls a wet cloth down over his arms and across the back of his neck. “Come now, when we’re away from here and back to our lives, you’ll miss having me around."

“Stranger things have happened,” Athos says, flat and dry, but there’s a hint of a smile. Aramis is becoming dangerously weak for Athos’ smiles, especially the ones like this one, where he can see it sparkling in Athos’ blue eyes.

“Did you sleep?” Athos nods. “A good rest?”  Athos nods again. “Good, we both deserved it after that trip. Now that you’ve had a chance to recover a bit, will you be able to be civil to our host?"

He’s expecting a glare, but something flickers in Athos’ gaze, almost a softness, before Athos speaks. “I can promise you civil, but I won’t promise anything more."

“I don’t understand, you.” Aramis shakes his head. “You seemed so much easier with him while we were traveling."

“What do you want, Aramis? That we should be the best of friends?” It almost sounds as if he’s asking for help, for a reason to believe they could be friends.  
   
“No.” Aramis is frustrated, he _likes_ Porthos, he’s glad to have found a human face among the enemy army. It gives him hope that this war might someday be over and he can go back to caring for pilgrims like he’d intended to. “No, I never expected that."  
   
"He seems charming, yes, but he is still a part of an enemy army, how can we know that what he showed us on the road was the truth? Do you think all it takes is a few conversations?"

Aramis doesn’t want to fight, not with the only friend he truly has. He wipes his face clean and drops the cloth over the bowl. Squeezing Athos’ shoulder, he smiles. “Come now, Athos. I’m a monk. Surely I can be forgiven for thinking the road to Damascus is a suitable place for a change of heart?"

Athos’ eye rolling is not enough to hide his smile.

“Let’s go see if we can find something to eat,” Aramis says. “If you’re still determined to leave after the physician comes, I don’t want to be marching on an empty stomach."

 

The boy who brought them food the night before passes them on the stairs. He inclines his head to them and says a few quick words. Aramis manages to convey with hand gestures that he should slow down. The boy repeats himself, slower this time and Aramis picks up that there is food coming shortly, it will be served in the same place, the iwan, the arched alcove off the main courtyard.

It’s a quiet meal, mostly bread and fruit and a mild, soft cheese. Aramis pours them cups of a drink made with water and lemon, and sits back to enjoy a few minutes of quiet. It’s startlingly cool after so many days in the desert. There’s a soft breeze moving the leaves of the lemon tree beside them, and rocking the lantern on its chain. 

Belly full and well rested, Aramis sits back on the couch, stretching until something pops in his back. He smiles and nods a greeting to the kitchen servant watching them from a doorway and turns back to Athos. “There, now. A couple of good meals, a full night’s sleep, aren’t you glad we stayed?"

Athos raises one eyebrow. They’ve both noticed the two men leaning against the wall outside the kitchen door, watching them. And they’ve both stood enough watch shifts to know that’s what’s happening. 

“We’re hardly in danger having a morning meal,” Aramis says but before Athos can respond there’s a heavy knock on the door across the courtyard, beside the gate that leads to the street. They both freeze.

The man Hamid ushers in is tall and slender. His dark hair is shot through with streaks of silver at his temples and his brows are heavy over his eyes. There are wrinkles at his eyes but his step is still young, his back still straight. There’s ornate embroidery at the sleeves of his robe and at the neck of the short, sleeveless tunic he wears over it, both fine and impeccably clean. His eyes miss nothing, passing over Athos and Aramis with a flick of a smile and a slight nod of his head. The curl of the stranger’s beard makes Aramis think of how many days it’s been since he groomed his own, and he twists the corners of his mustache as though that will compensate.

The soft leather of the stranger's slippers doesn’t make a sound as he follows Hamid up the stairs to Porthos’ rooms.

Athos turns to Aramis, opening his mouth to renew their conversation but they’re both brought up short by the sound of raised voices from upstairs, one much deeper than the other. A third voice comes in, sharp and serious, and the doors to Porthos’ rooms open and Hamid storms out. He thunders down to the landing of the stairs and leans over the railing to look at both of them.

“He would have you join him for the observation,” Hamid says.  The two men by the kitchen make as if to follow but Hamid shakes his head at them, instead he waves Aramis and Athos along as if the five seconds they’ve spent staring at him in shock were seconds he didn’t have to spare.

 

Porthos is lying in the bed, still and gray. The past few days have finally caught up with him, and Aramis is amazed he’s awake. Everything Porthos managed after the stitching the day before was pure adrenaline and he needs rest, but he seems determined to be alert for the physician. He waves Athos and Aramis closer.  
   
The cool morning air raises gooseflesh on Porthos leg where they’ve drawn the blanket back. The stranger, the doctor, Aramis now realizes, is bending over to poke at the edges around the dressing.  He raises sharp, green eyes and looks over Aramis and Athos again, as if seeing them for the first time. The question he asks Porthos is in rapid Arabic and Aramis catches only a couple of words: “which,” “Franks,” “doctor.”

A grin flashes across Porthos’ face, tired but fully there, and Aramis feels something warm settle in his chest. He’s so glad to see these warm smiles, this hint of the man Aramis first met peeking out through the tired, stretched face of a man in recovery. Aramis can feel his fingers twitch with how much he wants to touch Porthos’ face. 

When Porthos answers, he does it so they can all understand. “This one,” he says, pointing to Aramis. “Not only helped me in the field but would not leave until he could be satisfied of your skills. "

The physician gives Aramis his own smile. “Let us see if we can put your mind at ease, then,” he says.  

When the dressings are removed he pokes at the paste, smelling it and flaking it away to look at the wound underneath. “Honey,” he says. “And turmeric.” He looks over Aramis again, his aristocratic brows drawing together over a long nose. He looks at the crucifix around Aramis’ neck and the marks on his tunic where his armor has left stains and worn grooves. There’s a grin curling over his mouth as he looks back down. 

The room is quiet while the physician palpates the area around the sutures and checks the leg above and below. He asks Porthos a few questions and has Hamid support the thigh while he checks the range of motion in Porthos’ knee. Porthos hisses and reaches out to grab Aramis’ forearm, but he doesn’t cry out, and the physician nods. When he’s satisfied, he pulls the dressing loosely over the wound again and looks up at Aramis.   
   
“You are?”

Aramis introduces himself, leaving off his order and saying only that he is a Christian soldier. The physician smiles, as if the two of them are in on a private joke together.

"I am Muwaffaq al-Dīn ibn al-Mūtrān, My teacher of medicine was Muhadhdhab al-Dīn ibn al-Naqqāsh, and now I am a teacher myself. I would be happy to find your talent in one of my students.”  

Athos is speechless, and Hamid is clearly livid. Porthos takes in Aramis’ dumbstruck expression and Hamid’s glower and he laughs so hard that he starts coughing.

“If, hypothetically, you were to continue his treatment, what would you do now?”  Ibn al-Mutran asks.

Aramis steps forward, he’s on surer footing now. “Another compound paste, for perhaps four or five more days. Then providing the wound continues to look healthy, only a loose covering. I would remove the threads after two weeks and encourage movement after another two weeks.” 

“No blood-letting? No question of his humors?"

Aramis shrugs. “In most of my cases, there has already been enough bloodletting. I never find that draining more helps. If he seemed to malinger or if his progress stopped, then I would consult my literature.”  

Ibn al-Mutran smiles again. 

“Perhaps,” Aramis says, doing his best to be charming and sincere, “if it were permitted, I would consult with someone as learned as yourself."

“You might also visit the hospital, only a short walk from here, to speak with the students there. They have treated many wounded soldiers.” 

Aramis inclines his head. “If that resource were made available to me I would be foolish not to take advantage."

A smirk twitches at the corners of Ibn al-Mutran’s mouth. He stills it before turning to Porthos. 

“As it happens, the Sultan has asked me to attend him while he and his armies ride to the coast, so I will be unable to attend to our friend here.” He turns back to Aramis. “I wonder if you would do me the very great favor of treating him in my stead?"

Hamid turns on his heel and walks out. The noise Porthos makes is barely more than a wheeze but Aramis knows he’s laughing again. Athos, he imagines, is wondering what great sin he has committed that the Lord has punished him like this. 

“I would, of course, leave detailed instructions. There would also be a letter of introduction for you to my colleagues at the hospital, I encourage you to visit even when you are not in need of counsel; there is always something new to learn. If you go during morning hours you might sit in on the lectures."

“I would be exceptionally honored,” Aramis says, touching his hand to his heart, and he can almost hear Athos groaning.

“Excellent,” Ibn al-Mutran says, his green eyes are bright and alive. “I will have instructions sent over, along with a suitable set of robes marking you as a physician. You will find them more comfortable to move in, I think. I’ll also send some texts I think would be helpful to read.  When you are finished, you can have them delivered back to my home."

Aramis feels as though he has been trampled by an incredibly genial herd of horses. 

“You will forgive me,” he says. “I’m afraid the texts will not help me, I don’t read Arabic."

Ibn al-Mutran waves his hand as though he deals with five insurmountable challenges every day and this one is no greater effort to conquer than the others. “I am sure our Porthos will assist with that. Perhaps the effort will keep him engaged enough to not make himself worse by trying to rush the healing."

There’s a tired, disgruntled noise from Porthos, but Ibn al-Mutran only smiles and squeezes Porthos’ forearm before turning back to Aramis. 

“In the mean time, do as you proposed. A compound paste and then only the dressing. Keep the dressing clean and leave it on for a few days after you remove the sutures.” He slides his tools into a slender bag and hands it to his assistant. "I also recommend massages for the muscles of the compensating limbs. Soldiers don’t deal well with being suddenly sedentary, and are given to stressing themselves trying to keep moving in other ways."

Aramis leans in to hear him, Ibn al-Mutran’s words barely audible over the rushing in his ears following the word ‘massages.’ He will be touching Porthos, will be rubbing his muscles and puling at them, kneading the tension from them. By physician’s orders, Aramis will need to put his hands on Porthos’ bare skin, skin he’s barely resisted touching for days except in an official capacity.

His God is both cruel and merciful.

“Now, let’s leave him to rest,” Ibn al-Mutran says, “you can have the kitchen send up the supplies for the paste and apply it after he wakes.” He gestures for them to leave and follows them out the door.

When they’re on the landing, he catches Aramis’ elbow and speaks into his ear, low and quiet. “Hospitaller, I know what you are. I was raised Christian, my father was a bishop. You have the sword calluses of a soldier and the skills of a physician and those only come together in very few places.” Aramis doesn’t bother to argue. He only nods his head. “I don’t know how skilled you are at dispatching your enemies, but I know you have a gift for healing. Go to the hospital. Learn. Honor your god that way if you can. If you are still in the city after this conflict is over, you would be a wonderful student."

Aramis tries not to think of his father, of how much those words might have meant from him. Even from a stranger they’re a balm. “I took a vow,” he says. 

“Help Porthos for now. Visit the other students. Think about the vow another day.”  He pats Aramis’ shoulder and walks past him down the stairs. A storm-faced Hamid shows him out.

 

Aramis spends the afternoon resting and talking with Athos about what they think might be happening in the world around them. Athos suspects that in the wake of their defeat at Hattin, the Christian forces will return to their citadels and defendable fortresses and regroup. They spend a few minutes discussing what foolhardy things King Guy might do instead of the wiser option and Aramis gets another treasured smile from Athos at a few of his wilder suggestions. The sweat on Athos’ neck has made the ends of his hair damp and curly and Aramis wants to rub them between his fingers.

Athos is stretched along a bench in the courtyard and Aramis is sitting on the ground with his back to a trellis of climbing flowers. The heat is drowsy and thick but there’s a slight breeze and they’re both asleep before the kitchen boy comes to clear away the midday meal.

The last sun of evening finds Aramis alone in his room, his fingers toying with the edge of his new robes. They’re loose, a finely woven linen, and Ibn al-Mutran was right, Aramis finds it far easier to move in them than his long monk’s robes. The sleeveless leather tunic over the robes fits close to his chest and Aramis doesn’t doubt it can be easily wiped down: useful for a physician who wants to do more than teach. He strokes his hands along the sides of his ribcage, feeling the shape of muscle and bone under his palms.

There was a time, when he was young and foolish and such things were the focus of his life, when he’d been thought a striking figure by young women in his village. And young men, too, if he’s honest, and why not? He’s alone with his thoughts; it’s safe to remember the blacksmith’s apprentice’s hands where Aramis’ own are now. He wonders if his body is still pleasing to the eye now that he’s older, marked with scars from battle and wrinkles from squinting into sunlight and candle light. He wonders, before he can stop himself, if Porthos will like how Aramis looks in his robes. If Athos will. 

It marks him as one of God’s greatest fools that here, in a heathen enemy’s home in the middle of a war, far from safety, home, and everything familiar, Aramis finds himself impossibly attracted to not just one man but two. 

He shakes his head. “Ten years of life as a monk and you still have no sense of moderation.”  He jerks his sleeves down, feeling the fabric pull tight across his shoulders.  “Idiot."

“Who is?” The voice interrupts his thoughts, and Aramis almost jumps out of his skin. He turns to see Athos leaning hipshot against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. The golden light near sunset is catching his hair, and Aramis can see all the auburn streaks among the brown. His face is almost entirely in shadow but Aramis imagines he’s smirking, can almost hear it in his voice. 

“The physician,” Aramis says. “There’s no need for all of this fuss. Do you see how many books he sent? What kind of library must he have if he is willing to lend out five books to a near stranger?"

“Does this mean,” Athos says, pushing off the doorframe and coming into the room so that Aramis can now see his eyes, not as hard as they were yesterday, more alert and aware and more devastating for it, “that you don’t want them? Will you be sending them back, along with the robes, so that we can leave as you promised Porthos we would?"

The silence stretches out between them, grows thick with everything they’re not saying.

“Athos, I…” He can’t think of the words, doesn’t know the right way to say that something inside him, something he’s only felt in the heights of devotion and the depths of love, is telling him to stay and help this stranger.

“We can’t go anyway,” Athos says.

Aramis’ head jerks up. “What? _Why_?"

“I spoke briefly to the messenger who brought your finery.” He nods at Aramis’ robes. “He says his master goes to be with the Sultan."

“He told us that. They’re going for the coast."

“Not yet,” Athos reaches one hand out and feels the weight of the leather on Aramis’ shirt. “First they’re going to Kerak. It seems as soon as we turned away from Hattin in one direction, some of the Muslim forces turned the other way. They’ve begun a siege, and no one is going in or out."

“That’s your base,” Aramis says and Athos nods. “You would need to report there, to find where your commanders are or be reassigned.”  Athos nods again. “They’ll head for Belvoir as well.”  Athos doesn’t nod again, but Aramis can see it in his eyes. The closest thing to home for either of them is unreachable now.  
   
Aramis knows, they _both_  know, that if he truly wanted to, Athos could present himself, with Aramis in tow, to any stronghold still under Christian control. The commanders would find assignments for them and they’d be sent out again to keep fighting. Neither of them moves.

“I suppose,” Aramis says, “that we should wait until we know where would be safe to go. Or until the sieges are lifted.” Despite his best efforts, there’s something tentative in his voice.

“We’ll have to find somewhere to stay,” Athos says, but they both know it’s all been decided by now.

“I think we can convince our host to let us remain here, at least until he’s healed. It’s not our home, but it’s as safe as we can be, considering.” 

Athos doesn’t smile. He is very deliberately not smiling and Aramis imagines he can see it in his eyes. “Yes. Considering.” Now there’s a real smile, small and quick but there nonetheless. “And we have each other as allies."

Aramis nods, fisting his hands up inside his sleeves so that Athos can't see if they’re shaking. “Yes, we have each other.” Athos’ hand on his shoulder is a comforting weight and when Athos squeezes, Aramis imagines he can feel it in his heart.

“I need to put on a new paste and change his dressing,” Aramis says. “We can work it out now.”  Athos nods and follows him out.

 

  
Porthos still isn’t sitting up, but he’s got a third and fourth pillow under his head, so he’s up high enough to see them walk in after he answers their knock. His face has been washed clean of the last of the dirt from the road, his hair washed and oiled, twisted into curls lying coiled against his head. The gray is gone from his face and he has another tired smile for them. Aramis sees a hint of a dimple and his throat goes tight. 

It was easier to ignore when he was covered in blood and dirt and soot on the battlefield. It was easier to ignore when he was exhausted and weak on their journey. It was even possible to ignore earlier today when Aramis was acting in his professional capacity, but right now there is nothing between Aramis and the reality that Porthos is a strikingly beautiful man. A small voice in his head reminds Aramis that the physician has prescribed massages; Aramis tries to crush it under his boot as he walks into the room.

“You look better,” he says.

“I still feel like I’ve got a huge slice in my leg,” Porthos says and Athos snorts.

“I suppose that’s to be expected,” Aramis says. “Could you send for the honey and turmeric again? Or even just honey this time."

Porthos doesn’t turn away from Aramis’ face. He speaks two words and waits. Aramis frowns and Porthos repeats them. He gestures toward Aramis with his hand. 

Oh.

Aramis repeats the words, slowly. Porthos corrects his pronunciation once and then smiles when Aramis gets it right. He gestures toward the servant by his bed.  Aramis turns to the young man and says the two words, and then adds the word he thinks means ‘thank you’.  The boy smiles and nods before leaving.

“If Ibn al-Mutran says you should learn, then who am I to argue?” Porthos says.

When they’re alone, with no servants, Aramis makes his opening gambit. “Speaking of the good doctor, I’ve decided to stay to follow his wishes.” 

“You and your shadow? And if I don’t want guests?"

Aramis swallows and remembers Porthos telling him that if others in his army found he was freeing his captives he wouldn’t be able to help any more of them. “He has the ear of your Sultan and he’s seen us here, his servants have seen us here. If I send his books back now, with a note saying how sorry I am that I can’t stay—“ 

“They’ll know I’ve let you go. Word might get back to the Sultan,” Porthos says, and Aramis can see the cleverness in his eyes. “I suppose you should stay, then. Until I’m healed. You can leave when I go back to fight, if not sooner."

“If not sooner, yes.” 

Aramis doesn’t look back at Athos, doesn’t want to see what’s on his face and how he feels about Aramis even insinuating that he might blackmail the enemy who holds their safety in his hand.

If there’s something else to say, if either Porthos or Aramis wants to call the other’s bluff, it’s lost in the bustle of the servant returning, this time with another boy carrying a table and a bowl with water and some clean bandages.

Aramis mixes honey into the golden-yellow powder until he’s got a thick paste and then rinses the wound clean before spreading the paste over the sutures and the edges of the cut. He wraps clean bandages over it, keeping the tension on them until he can tie the ends together. 

“There,” he says, and gives the knot a last little tug.

Porthos’ hand lifts off the sheet a little, taking the linen of Aramis’ sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. “These the new robes?"

Aramis nods.

Porthos makes a little humming noise, it could mean anything and Aramis tries not to read approval into it. 

“Where are the books?"

“In the room where I’m sleeping.” 

Another tired hum from Porthos. “No need to start with them, I suppose.” He looks back at Athos. “There’s a book on the table by the door. Would you bring it to me, please?”  Porthos turns back to Aramis. “I think we have time for your first lesson, yes?"

“You… you’re going to teach me to read?"

Porthos nods. “Ibn al-Mutran said I would help you read the texts he sent you; I’d hate to disappoint him."

“You wouldn’t rather just tell me what they say?” Aramis asks.

“I could, but if we do this, you can continue your studies after we are both back at war, trying to kill each other again.” 

 

  
The next half hour is the most surreal of Aramis’ life. He’s wearing the robes of a Muslim physician, sitting next to a heathen, _on his bed_  and having his first lesson in reading the Arabic script. Their heads are bent together over the book so Aramis can follow Porthos’ finger as it traces across the page. He doesn’t pick up much, but he is beginning to see patterns in the shapes, so he considers it a good beginning.  After the first ten minutes he almost stops being aware of every place along his side where he can feel Porthos’ heat. Almost.

Athos sits on the other side of the bed, rocked back on two legs of his chair, and listens to them talk. From time to time he stretches so he can see where Porthos his pointing, as if he’s following along. 

As Aramis goes to ask a question, the book droops and then jerks back up. Porthos is fading, he’s already pushed himself further than Aramis, as his physician now, apparently, would recommend. 

“I’m afraid I have to stop there,” Aramis says. “I’ll do better in more light."

“We c’n start again tomorrow,” Porthos says. 

“Will you have time?” Aramis asks.

“I’ll have to cancel my dancing lesson,” Porthos says, “but I think I can arrange it."

Athos snorts again and Aramis rolls his eyes. “Tomorrow, then."

Athos stands to rearrange the chair and Aramis walks out of the room. He’s almost to the stairs when he hears Athos’ voice.

“I wonder if I might…” he trails off.

“What is it?” Porthos asks.

There’s a pause and Aramis wonders if the conversation is over. He waits to hear Athos’ footsteps behind him. 

“My saddlebag,” Athos says.

“They brought your horse back with us."

“I wanted to thank you."

There’s another moment of quiet before Porthos speaks again. “In my saddlebag I’ve got a sharpening stone that fits in my hand like Allah molded it just for me. I know just how to turn it to get the most out of a single stroke."

“Yes,” Athos says, and Aramis can hear a thickness in his voice.

“When I was in Aleppo, at least five years ago now, I got myself a set,” he pauses like he’s searching for a word and Aramis can almost picture his hand waving around, making the motions or shape for whatever it is he means. “Chess. I got myself a chess set. Nothing fancy, just carved wooden pieces and a leather board we could roll up when we were finished. Perfect for travel like we have to do.” His voice sounds dry and there’s a pause. When Porthos speaks again his voice is clearer and Aramis imagines Athos passing him some water.

“It was my reminder that being away from home isn’t always bad. I got really good at the game, the other men in my unit almost never beat me. One day I thought I lost a pawn. Hunted for it for _hours_.  Eventually we played with a rock instead, but I knew it was wrong. It was wrong and so was everything else. I lost four games in a row before tearing my saddlebag apart to search again. Finally found it inside one of my socks."

“Yes,” Athos says again, as though he’s agreeing with the entire sentiment. 

“I know what it’s like to be away from home, to have almost nothing around you that's yours, that's _you_ and not the soldier. I know what it’s like to lose it, and what it’s like to get it back.”  Another long silence. “I would hate to lose that pawn again. Or my sharpening stone. I imagined you would feel the same."

“Thank you,” Athos says again, and he sounds like he had when he and Aramis spoke at La Sepphoria, or the night before Hattin, not like he had yesterday. He sounds like he’s sharing stories with a friend across a table, like he’s let his guard down just a bit, just for the moment. The pitch of his voice is a little higher, the tone a little softer, and he doesn’t sound like he’s talking to an enemy.

Aramis thinks back to their conversation before breakfast, how Athos had sounded even then like he was looking for an excuse. And earlier, when they had decided to stay, Athos had barely put up a fight. Now it makes sense. It’s like watching a shoot pushing up between two rocks, and Aramis feels a surge of something so out of place.

It’s ridiculous to feel protective of Athos, a man who has proven how capable he is of defending not just himself but also Aramis, but Aramis feels it anyway.

 

When Athos comes out of Porthos’ rooms, Aramis is standing at the balcony in front of their rooms, looking up at the sky. Athos steps up beside him and rests his elbows on the railing.

Aramis scratches at his chin. “Somehow, even after our earlier nap, I find myself tired again."

“You should go to bed,” Athos says.

“I think I will. I’ll see you for the morning meal?”  Aramis asks and Athos nods. 

Aramis reaches his hand out and puts it on Athos shoulder, squeezing. He walks behind Athos to his door, trailing his hand across Athos upper back and patting his other shoulder before he lets go. It’s too much, but this night seems to be made for pushing at the edges just a little. Still, best to stop before he gets reckless.

“Good night, Athos,” Aramis says, and closes his door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a writer has to create a character from wholecloth, and that process can be wonderful and rewarding. Sometimes, though, a writer gets lucky, and history has already created for them the perfect person, and the writer need only tease out more and more information about them, being increasingly delighted at every turn. 
> 
> Lest you think that in the character of Ibn al-Mutran I have done the former, rest assured, [it's very much the latter.](http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/books-manuscripts/muwaffaq-al-din-abu-nasr-asad-bin-abu-5604506-details.aspx) He was a peacock of a man, a dedicated physician who had three full-time copyists on staff. When he died, had ten thousand books in his personal library. He was known, on more than one occasion, to take a young doctor under his wing and send a set of robes and invite them on rounds. Even, in one lovingly documented instance, a Christian doctor.
> 
> He also had a fantastic instance where he decided he should have a tent as cool as Saladin's and when Saladin ordered him to change it he huffed for a week until he had to be bribed to come out and do his job. I could not, even at the height of my creative powers, have created a better mentor for Aramis. If you find yourself with nothing better to do, there's a delightful biographical note about him [here](http://www.tertullian.org/fathers/ibn_abi_usaibia_03.htm).


	6. i licked the sugar off the walls of my memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For days now, Aramis has been studious about avoiding Porthos’ skin. Whether keeping his sleeves pulled down while they read so their arms wouldn’t brush while they were reading in the evenings or using a bandage under his fingers while testing the area around the wound. This time there’s no escaping it. Up until now, thoughts of touching that skin have been a dream, but this is a nightmare. The best he can hope for is to not embarrass himself by giving away his desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is being so supportive and amazing with all the feedback and love. Y'all are the best and I'm having a great time letting them inhabit this world.

_Yesterday I thought of my love for you_   
_I remembered suddenly_   
_drops of honey on your lips_   
_I licked the sugar off the walls of my memory_

-Nizar Qabbani

~

Aramis has spent the last two weeks checking Porthos’ leg every day. He’s poked at the edges to see if the wound was festering inside, past the stitches where they wouldn’t be able to see. He’s checked for tenderness or the streaks he knows to watch for. Two months ago he wouldn’t have known what to look for on skin like Porthos’, but mornings at the hospital, rounds of visiting the patients there, have taught him to notice the purple streaks and sickly red-brown tinge. There have even been moments where he’s checked with the back of his hand to see if the area around it feels warmer than it should. As of yesterday, the paste is gone; Porthos' only bandage is the loose linen wrap.

Over the last eight days Porthos has been conscious more often than not, and for the last five he’s been trying to sit up, stretch, reach for things, all without disturbing his leg. This is something Aramis knew even before Ibn al-Mutran told him: soldiers are not naturally inclined to sit still for long. Two days ago something started to pinch in Porthos’ shoulder, and it’s getting worse as he continues to try to be active while confined to bed.  The only treatment for it now is a deep working of the muscle using an oil steeped with herbs known to soothe the tension. 

For days now, Aramis has been studious about avoiding Porthos’ skin. Whether keeping his sleeves pulled down while they read so their arms wouldn’t brush while they were reading in the evenings or using a bandage under his fingers while testing the area around the wound.  This time there’s no escaping it. Up until now, thoughts of touching that skin have been a dream, but this is a nightmare. The best he can hope for is to not embarrass himself by giving away his desires.

Which is why, in the rich, heavy heat of the afternoon, Aramis is laid out on his bed, one spit-slick hand around his erection and the other over his mouth to stifle his moans, stroking himself to a desperate, messy finish. If he can take the edge off now, maybe he can keep his wits about him when he’s feeling Porthos’ warm, oiled flesh under his hands. 

Behind his eyelids, images are slamming into him one after another. 

Porthos, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, arching over him where he’s sprawled on low couch in the _iwan_.  There’s a smile on Porthos’ face and only a fool would miss the predatory gleam in his eyes. “You’ll like this,” Porthos says and with his hand he--

The plaster of the wall is solid and cool behind Aramis' back as Athos grips his shoulders and presses him backwards. His mouth is hot on Aramis’ neck, his teeth sharp. There’s the sound of his own breath hissing in Aramis’ ears and then a low, heavy groan as Athos bites his way up Aramis’ throat, mouthing at his jaw and tugging Aramis’ lips in between his teeth. Top lip first, then the bottom. Their mouths together then, kissing and --

Fingers on his mouth now. Porthos’ fingers. Tracing his lips, pushing at the lower one until Aramis’ mouth drops open and Porthos can lick his way inside, their mingled breaths a single noise of desperate want. Porthos is draped over him, his good leg heavy between Aramis’ thighs and Aramis is riding it, rocking against it and feeling Porthos’ skin wet with Aramis’ slick. “I need—“ Aramis stops, the words aren’t coming, all he can feel is the air stuck in his throat as Athos’ too bends over him. Athos’ hands on his shoulders, holding him down on the bed. Athos knows what he needs, they both do. They’ll give him their bodies, their skin, their strength to work against until he’s straining in their grip and sobbing into Athos’ mouth as Porthos swallows him down.

There are tears in the corners of his eyes as Aramis frantically pushes up into his own fist, his release spattering against his chest. 

With no more sounds to cover up, the hand buried in his mouth flops out to the side, hitting the bed with a whump. “Fuck.”

This didn’t help. If anything, this made it worse.

 

“Come in."

Aramis pushes the door further open, and steps in from the afternoon sun. Porthos was sleeping, he realizes; there are creases on his face from the pillows and something in Aramis’ heart is a plucked string, vibrating.

“Oh, it’s you. I thought it was Yusuf."

“Have you not eaten? Do you want me to call for him?"

Porthos shakes his head. “No, it’s too hot to eat."

Aramis frowns. “I don’t like the idea of you skipping meals.”  Porthos’ laugh strokes Aramis’ skin like cool water down his back.

“If I promise you to eat more at dinner, will that be enough?"

“I’ll allow it,” Aramis says and Porthos smirks. 

“You’re giving the orders now?"

“In these matters? Yes.” Aramis had never been the type to refrain from speaking his mind, but the past two weeks have only made him bolder.

“In these matters. I wonder—“ Porthos stops. “Never mind. Have you come to check on my bandages again? You were just here this morning."

“I was, and while you think you’re clever enough to hide it, I noticed how you were sitting. If I had to guess, that pain in your shoulder is spreading to your back, and despite the fact that you have a doctor coming in to see you twice a day, you still decided to sit there in pain rather than mention it."

Porthos’s clever grin flattens into a glare.

“It would serve you right if I let you sit there, getting more and more pinched and twisted. But if I did that, Hamid would probably spit in my soup.” He puts the little clay jar of oil and a small stack of towels down on the table by the bed. “Come on now, off with your shirt."

Aramis is listening to his own voice, checking for any sign of tension or strain. So far, even as he’s encouraging Porthos to bare his chest and back, he sounds calm and unfazed. As Porthos pulls his shirt over his head and balls it up on his lap, Aramis pours himself a cup of water, downing it in one gulp. His mouth is dry and his face is hot.

He’s only seen Porthos like this once, not long after they’d arrived, but the image has haunted his dreams. The swath of warm, dark skin facing him now is making Aramis clench his fists over and over.

“One of the books Ibn al-Mutran sent over had a pharmacy section. I couldn’t read all of it, but I recognized some of the plants, so I’ve infused this with a few herbs.” He holds up the pot. “It should help with the tightness.”  

Aramis puts one knee up on the bed, turning until his back is against the headboard and he can see Porthos’ back stretched in front of him. “Lean—“ He has to stop and clear his throat. “Lean forward a bit. Not too far.” 

The scent of the oil drifts into the room and intensifies as Aramis warms some of it between his palms. Porthos curls his torso over, letting the movement stretch the area between his shoulder blades.

“The right side?”  Aramis taps it with his fingers and Porthos nods, grunting a little. 

Aramis rubs his hands faster, feeling his skin grow hot with the friction, and then he puts both palms flat against the right side of Porthos’ back. The contact sends a jolt through his skin and it’s all Aramis can do not to immediately jerk his hands away. 

Porthos groans, low and long, and Aramis sags a little in defeat. This was never going to be easy. The movement puts some more weight behind his touch and he finds he’s pushing a little at Porthos’ shoulder, stretching it more. 

He digs the tips of his fingers in and then pulls his hands apart, dragging them over Porthos’ skin, soaking up every tiny place where they’re touching. He loves this as much as he hates it. More oil on his hands, then again he pushes, strokes, and rubs over Porthos’ back. Aramis digs his thumbs under Porthos’ shoulder blade, trying to simultaneously remember the anatomy drawings in his books and drive away the sounds of Porthos’ groans of pleasure.

There are knots, little spots of tightness. Aramis wets his hands with more oil before digging his knuckles into them, rubbing against them until they loosen and Porthos shoulders droop with the release of tension. The longer his hands are in contact with Porthos, the broader his movements get. Once the immediate area around the pain is soothed, Aramis starts rubbing in long, sweeping strokes. His hands sweep up from the small of Porthos’ back to the base of his neck, over and over, and Porthos never stops making noise. 

Porthos, half-naked and moaning under his touch, is everything Aramis has been trying to deny his imagination for days.

“I think. I think we’re done,” Aramis says after nearly forty minutes. “Let me help you on with your shirt."

“No,” Porthos says. “It’s fine. Don’t want to move my arms yet, now that they’re feeling so good. I’ll just rest like this for a bit.”  

Aramis supports his back as Porthos straightens and then reclines a little, resting himself against the mountain of pillows Aramis has made for him. His hands are still in his lap, holding his shirt, but his face is loose and easy, his shoulders relaxed and dropped. 

“Thank you. Now that I know how effective that is, I won’t be so stubborn."

Aramis looks at him. Porthos chuckles and adds, “About that anyway."

“Good.” More massages in his future. Aramis wonders if he has displeased God in some egregious way in the last few days. “That’s good.”  He pokes at one of the pillows behind Porthos’ head. “Will you sleep again?"

“I can try,” Porthos says. Aramis cocks an eyebrow. “I promise."

“Do you want me to send Yusuf up?”  Porthos’ head shake is tiny but Aramis sees it. “Then will Athos and I see you after the evening meal?” A half nod from Porthos. Aramis wipes his hands on a towel, takes the oil pot, and steps off the bed. “Good. Until then."

Once he’s outside the door, barely even out of sight, Aramis collapses against the wall and takes a few minutes to catch his breath. 

 

The next day’s Arabic lesson finds the three of them in the courtyard together, and it’s almost a celebration. Porthos has spent two weeks staring at nothing but his own walls, moving only the barest amount, for basic bodily functions or when Aramis needed him to. Two days ago he’d snapped at Yusuf and thrown a glass at Hamid and though it had sounded like Hamid was swallowing glass when he spoke, he’d had asked Aramis if it was okay for Porthos to be moved. 

Porthos turns his face to the sun, smiling as it hits his skin. He cracks one eye and watches, eyes crinkling with the promise of a smile, as Athos and Aramis bicker about where to sit. The fourth time Aramis suggests bringing out another seat from the _iwan_ , Porthos finally says something.

“We going to get some reading done, or are you two still going to be deciding where to put that blanket when it’s time for my next prayers?"

“If Athos weren’t so determined to have things just so—"

“As if you haven’t rejected the last four suggestions."

Aramis sniffs.

“I’m not moving,” Porthos says. “So why don’t you just put it so that I can see Aramis’ book and get on with it?"

When they finally stop moving, Yusuf brings out a low table with drinks on it and a plate of small crackers dotted with sesame seeds. Aramis thanks him, pleased to see that Yusuf has stopped wincing at his pronunciation, and opens his book. 

“I think I can make out these letters, but I don’t recognize this one."

Porthos turns to look at him and blinks, lazy. “Hmm?” Aramis taps the book with his finger and Porthos nods. “Right, that’s because you’re used to seeing it all by itself. That’s what it looks like as the last letter, it’s a little different. Still the same letter though, the same sound.” He stretches his arms over his head and looks around at the courtyard as though it’s all new.

Aramis watches Porthos’ skin move, sees it sliding over his body and watches the muscles underneath. He can almost feel it under his fingers, warm and smooth except for the scars. It’s a phantom touch against Aramis’ hands, a reminder of the day before.

He’ll have to touch Porthos again. Soon, if the way Porthos is moving around is any indication. Which will be worse? Those forty minutes of contact, slick and hot, or all the time until then that Aramis spends imagining it?

Athos reaches up and touches on part of the page. “And this is how it looks in the middle, yes?"

Nodding, Porthos flashes a grin at Athos. “Exactly, yeah. I didn’t realize how much you were picking up, too.” His smile is sincerely pleased and Aramis wants to do everything possible to earn a smile like that for himself. 

“We should do these lessons out here more often,” Aramis says.

Porthos leans back against the pile of pillows behind him and scratches his belly. “We should. Would be a nice way to spend some of the midday hours.” He pauses for a second then asks, "What would we do in the evenings instead?"

Athos brings one knee up, propping his forearm on it and rolling a sesame seed between his fingers, splitting it open between thumbnail and the pad of his forefinger. Aramis can see the oil against his skin. “Chess?” Athos says.

Porthos jerks his head around to look at Athos. His eyes are alive and that smile is back. “Yes!"

“I don’t play,” Aramis says.

Athos shrugs. “You don’t read Arabic either, but we seem to be remedying that.”  

“I like this plan,” Porthos says, running his hand over his beard. He waves in Aramis’ direction. “You’ll be at the hospital in the mornings, of course, but we can do this after you get back. And then chess later. We’ll need breaks for prayers, of course, but Athos will be able to use that time to recover from his losses on the board."

Athos snorts and Aramis wishes he could take this afternoon and store it in a box, taking it out and feeling all over again the warmth and genuine enjoyment he gets in the company of these two men. 

When the lesson is over, it’s nearly time for the evening meal but Porthos is tired.

“Have Yusuf and Hamid take you back upstairs, they’ll bring you your meal there.” 

“But—“

“In the morning. Come down in the morning again. Right now you need rest.”

Athos begs their pardon, heading up to his rooms after telling Aramis he’ll be back for dinner.  Porthos and Aramis watch him go, nodding at the servants and wishing them a good evening.

“Do you think he’ll ever trust me?” 

Aramis shrugs. “I thought I knew. A week ago I’d have said no, never. Today? Who can say."

“He does seem to be thawing a little."

“It’s probably the food. We haven’t eaten this well in years. Also it’s nice having a proper bed for more than two nights in a row."

Porthos chuckles and squeezes Aramis’ shoulder. “I know what you mean.”  Aramis can feel the warmth where they’re touching and aches to lean into it.

They’re quiet then, listening to the insects in the trees starting their nighttime songs and the servants in the kitchen preparing the meal.  The smell of mace drifts into the courtyard and Aramis can feel his stomach rumble. 

“Do _you_ believe I don’t mean you harm?”  Porthos asks.

The silence can’t be as long as Aramis fears it is, but it seems to stretch for hours while he searches for the right words. There’s no way to say, ‘Something about you seems more real to me than almost everyone else I’ve ever met,’ or ‘When you laugh I would follow you anywhere,’ so he just smiles and finally says, “You’ve given me no reason _not_ to believe you."

“Except for being in another army."

Aramis’ right eyebrow goes up and one side of his mouth almost smiles. “Well. No one’s perfect."

 

The first to arrive in the _iwan_ for the morning meal the next day, Aramis lounges on the low couch and listens to the morning birds. He wishes he could say that he’s missing his calling, his unit, his brother monks, but it would be a lie. This day will be full of books and learning and time with the instructors and patients at the hospital. He’s begun to get familiar with them, and he’s invested in their recovery now. The lectures are still a little too fast for him, but he picks up more words than not and the instructors are remarkably patient with this strange Christian taking up their time.

Arms crossed over his belly, Aramis dozes a bit in the cool of the morning and waits for Athos and Porthos to arrive. He’s eager for it, even with the sweet longing that always accompanies his time with them.

There’s the familiar urge to touch Porthos, remembering the slick slide of that skin under his palms. His fingers itch for it, but for now there’s no sign Porthos is in need of it again, so Aramis has held back. Likewise he’s been able to keep quiet when his tongue wants to run free about how wonderful it is to be here with Athos, to have his friend nearby. His fingers stay busy with the pages or the quill and never once reach out to tuck Athos’ hair behind his ears or trace the curve of his lip.  Every day that goes by without his hands straying in a way that’s too familiar is another day Aramis believes in miracles.

Athos’ footfall on the stairs has become so familiar to him that Aramis can pick it out from the servants coming and going. “Good morning” he calls, not picking his head up from the pillow.

“Somehow,” Athos says, “I expected this to feel less comfortable than it does.”

Confused, Aramis looks up and almost chokes on the grape he’s chewing. 

Athos’ hair is pulled back from his face, tied in the back with a red leather thong. What’s loose around his shoulders is clean and curling at the ends.  With Athos' face and forehead clear, Aramis can see all those freckles so clearly, can see his bright eyes sparking. His fingers are plucking at the fabric over his legs. It’s not the hose Aramis has grown so familiar with; instead a pair of trousers in a soft, lightweight blue wool that’s so dark it’s almost black. They’re made in the Saracen style, wide through the crotch and tailored over the legs, perfect for sitting astride a horse. 

His old tunic is gone as well. In its place is a deep gold shirt with long sleeves, and over that a shorter tunic in a deep russet red. The overshirt crosses in the front and fastens with a button at the neck, and the color makes the skin of Athos' face glow, warm and luminous. Whether the red in his hair shows more today because of the fabric or the sun on his shoulders, Aramis has no idea. It’s not entirely new, though: the belt holding the overshirt closed and the boots on his feet are both the ones Aramis has grown so familiar with. A little touch of Athos amidst the strangeness of the new clothes.

Aramis sits up, making room for Athos to sit next to him, and looks him over again, head to toe. These are the same kinds of clothes he sees on patients and servants and even Porthos, but the shock of seeing them on Athos is making Aramis’ heart slam in his chest. Nothing short of the hand of God the Almighty could keep Aramis from touching Athos right now.

With tentative fingers, Aramis straightens the overlap at the front of Athos’ tunic. “That is.” He swallows. “The color suits you." He brushes the fabric smooth over Athos' shoulders. “It’s comfortable?"

“You should know, you’re wearing much the same thing.”  Aramis’ robes are longer, but his trousers are the same and though his overtunic is shorter and leather, the cut is similar.

“True, but it’s not so different from the robes I was already accustomed to.” 

“Well.” Athos stretches his legs out and reaches for the pitcher Yusuf has just put on the table, pausing to nod his thanks. He pours a cup of water for each of them. “I find I’m not used to making sure the closures lay correctly.” He pauses to fuss at the same overlap Aramis had. “But it’s easy to move. And I appreciate not having to tie my hose and braies.” 

Before Aramis can say anything in reply, Porthos is carried in by two servants and settled on the couch opposite them. 

“I’ve been looking forward to a meal outside my room for days now,” he says with a happy sigh. Porthos’ tunic, Aramis observes, is a warm brown with a pale white undertunic and breeches of an earthy green. Aramis wants to touch him the way he had Athos, wants to run his fingers around Porthos’ collar and trace the letters of the embroidery on his sleeves. Porthos smiles wider when he sees Athos. “Oh, good, they came."

“I did assume this was your doing."

“I worried that if you spent another week in it, your tunic might actually fall apart while we were watching,” Porthos says and Aramis coughs into his water. "I told the tailor to use my measurements but that you were a bit narrower in your shoulders. You look comfortable. If you want I can send him your own clothes and have him make more like that. I just thought.” He takes a breath. "You don’t have to wear them."

“Thank you,” Athos says. “This wasn’t necessary."

“I know. You’re welcome."

“Now I’m worried Hamid is going to spit in _Athos’_ soup,” Aramis says. 

“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” Athos says.

Aramis grins, then looks around, slightly confused. “I was going to suggest our little shadows keep an eye on the kitchen, too, if only to protect the virtue of our food, but I don’t see them.”

Athos shakes his head. “Not with Porthos out here.”

One of the kitchen boys brings out bread and fruit and balls of strained yoghurt covered in herbs. Porthos reaches across to help himself and Aramis is pleased to see him moving easily after the massage.

“Your little shadows?” Porthos cocks his head, curious.

Athos chews and swallows. “The guards."

Porthos stops in the middle of chewing. “Guards?"

Athos looks confused. “Yes. I assume they’re not here now because you’re with us, but rest assured they’ve been doing their jobs well. They watch us going to and from our rooms, they’re across the courtyard while we eat. At least one goes with Aramis to the hospital each morning."

Aramis grins. “The last few days I’ve been able to lose them for a few minutes. I know I shouldn’t enjoy watching them look flustered as they catch up to me, but I take my entertainment where I can get it."

The big muscle on the right side of Porthos’ jaw is jumping and his eyes are narrow. “You’ve had guards on you since you got here.” It’s not a question but Athos answers anyway.

“Were we not meant to notice them? It’s probably better that we did, just their presence would help prevent wrongdoing from anyone who had it in their minds."

Porthos’ eyes screw shut and he takes several deep, even breaths in through his nose. “I’m sorry."

The confusion deepens on Athos’ face. “Why? It was a sensible decision; I’d put guards on my enemies as well. Especially in my house."

Porthos’ knuckles pop as his fist clenches in his lap. “I trust you in my home. You are not my enemies here."

Aramis can see Porthos trying to stay calm but his pulse is thumping in his neck and his shoulders are drawing up. He’s angry but he’s trying not to show it to Athos. 

“Have you forgotten that we first met because I tried to kill you? Porthos, we _are_ your enemies."

Porthos shakes his head, fast and hard, and then looks at Athos with open, serious eyes. “Not now. Not in this house."

Before Aramis can open his mouth to speak, Athos says, “You say we’re not your enemies, but we’re certainly not your friends. So what does that make us?”

Aramis listens to Athos’ tone for derision or scorn, but he simply sounds perplexed. It’s that same quiet search for another option that Aramis had heard when Athos asked if they were supposed to trust Porthos when they first arrived.

“My guests,” Porthos says.

“Guests?” Aramis hears the hope in his own voice.

“Yes,” Porthos says, firm and clear. “And this is _not_ how I show hospitality to my guests."

Athos sounds even more confused when he replies, “Why are there guards, then?"

“I don’t know,” Porthos says. “But I’m going to find out.”

The look on his face makes Aramis fear for whoever is on the other end of that temper when it finally breaks.

The rest of the meal is quick and tense. Aramis rinses his fingers clean and stands, touching Athos on the shoulder and giving Porthos a strained smile. “I think I want to gather a few things to take with me to the hospital this morning."

Porthos nods. “I’ve got some things I need to do. I’ll see you both here later?” When they agree, Porthos calls for the servants who brought him down. Carrying Porthos, they follow Aramis up the stairs.

Aramis is still looking for the book he wants to take with him, the one with the diagram he’d asked one of the instructors to explain to him, when he hears raised voices from Porthos’ room. The door is closed but the windows are open, and their words ring clearly through the air.

“You don’t know what they’re capable of,” Hamid is saying.

“I have had them riding at me in battle, I think I know better than you what they’re capable of,” Porthos says.

“Exactly! In battle! This is why I assigned the guards."

“That was not your decision to make!” 

Hamid’s voice drops low enough that Aramis can’t make out the words, but before long he’s nearly shouting again. “—need to make sure you are safe!"

Porthos’ voice goes in and out and Aramis knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop but he’s straining to hear. “—never forget al-Safiya… my life… grateful, you know that… master of this house… a chamberlain not a _guard dog_!"

Aramis’ mind flicks through names like pages in a book, trying to place al-Safiya in his memory. When he finally remembers, so much makes sense. It’s the name the Saracens use for the place where the young King of Jerusalem defeated Saladin, more than a decade earlier. Porthos himself would barely have been old enough for command at that point. If he’d found himself in danger, if Hamid had come to his aid… Aramis thinks back over Hamid’s protectiveness, his air of responsibility for Porthos and Porthos’ indulgent smile at Hamid’s fussing. 

Hamid is speaking again and Aramis can’t make out any of it, but when Porthos answers, every word is clear.

“They are my _guests_. They are _our_ guests and this is not the way they should be treated. We’re supposed to make them welcome. What’s welcoming about guards watching you eat, Hamid?” There’s no answer. “Tell me!"

There are more murmured words from Hamid and then Porthos’ answering declaration. “That's _not_ your decision. It’s not your _place._ If I say they’re guests, that’s it. Call off the guards.” There’s barely time for a breath and then, “Enough! When Aramis leaves for the _bimaristan_ he can take an escort if he wants, but no guards."

It’s quiet for a few seconds; the air filled with only the sounds of the insects in the trees and distant voices carrying faintly in from the street. 

Porthos says something and he must be dismissing Hamid because the next words are clearer, as though the door is open. “Send in Yusuf, please. And Tahir from the kitchen.” He sounds so tired. “Want to make sure they understand, too.” 

“As you say.” Hamid’s voice is perfectly flat. The click that follows is surely the door to Porthos’ rooms closing, so Aramis waits until he’s sure Hamid has gone back downstairs before he comes out of his room.

Athos is still in the courtyard, and from the mask of indifference he’s wearing he obviously heard almost as much as Aramis did. Before Aramis can say anything, Hamid passes them both on his way back from the kitchens. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at them, but from his face it’s clear that they may be Porthos’ guests, but to Hamid they’re still the enemy. 

 

Arriving at the hospital, Aramis is greeted by two of the instructors and for the next few hours his life is simple, exactly as he imagined it earlier. He doesn’t think about the morning’s exchange. He doesn’t think about how beautiful Athos looked in his new clothes and how his hair might curl around Aramis’ fingers. He doesn’t think about how warm Porthos’ skin would be under his hands. For hours he’s free from imagining the feel of Porthos’ heat against his side while they’re reading, or the candlelight against Athos' face, but when he walks back out into the street, all those things are waiting for him again.

He knows the turns now. The streets are quieter, left to their own devices in the afternoon heat, but there are still a few children underfoot. Aramis smiles at them and they smile back.

The day before the midday meal had been _rutabiya_ , meat with coriander and pistachios, and Aramis is hoping for something just as good today. Perhaps Yusuf will bring another plate of the sweet sesame crackers for them to enjoy as they read, heads bent together as Aramis deciphers one word after another.

In the evening, after Porthos has rested, Aramis will pull out the texts Ibn al-Mutran loaned him and go through the illustrations, making notes of questions to ask the next day. Beside him, in the quiet of Porthos’ candle-lit rooms or the lemon-scented air of the courtyard, Athos and Porthos will try to outthink one another on the chessboard and ask him questions about his day. The only thing more enjoyable to watch than the chess game happening on the board will be the unspoken one happening between those two men.

Aramis' step is a little faster now, and when did that start? 

He’s halfway across the courtyard, on his way to his rooms, when Aramis hears Porthos’ voice from the _iwan_ and goes to investigate. Athos is sitting on a pillow, holding a piece of paper in one hand and a cup of water in the other. Porthos is on the couch behind him, leaning over to point out something on the drawing. Aramis can feel himself smiling but it takes another second before he knows why. He’s missed them.

“There you are,” Porthos says. He tries to sit up too fast and Aramis winces in sympathy. If he makes it another day without needing his muscles rubbed, Aramis will be very surprised. Porthos’ face is so open and Aramis wonders if, hopes really, Porthos has missed him too. “I told Athos you would be home soon."

Home? No, this isn’t his home. Not yet. But Porthos is right. Soon. 


	7. what can the wound do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me again, what were you doing?"
> 
> Porthos winces and Athos smirks, but whether he thinks it’s because of Aramis’ tone or the pain in Porthos’ back, Porthos can’t be sure
> 
> "I was trying to push myself up in bed."
> 
> "And how many times, in the last hundred days, have I told you to ask for help?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a niche project, piles of research and historical periods not often plumbed in AUs, but it means so much to me and it's feeding my soul to work on it, to learn this incarnation of these men and explore their world. Every one of you who comes along for the journey, who leaves kudos or a comment, who cheers on my tumblr posts, I can't tell you how much it means to me, how much every bit of it warms my heart. Thank you.

_There is nothing I can do_  
_nothing you can do_  
_what can the wound do_  
_with the knife on the way to it?_

 _-_ Nizar Qabbani, "Between Us"

_~_

 

"Tell me again, what were you doing?"

Porthos winces and Athos smirks, but whether he thinks it’s because of Aramis’ tone or the pain in Porthos’ back, Porthos can’t be sure

"I was trying to push myself up in bed."

"And how many times, in the last hundred days, have I told you to ask for help?"

Athos is watching them from his seat on the low couch in Porthos’ room. Porthos is flat on his belly, his arms at his sides. Porthos knows that from the way his face is turned, Athos must be able to see every grimace as Aramis’ fingers dig in. They’ve been through this a dozen times now, Porthos’ muscles grow tight, and Aramis eases them, and the experience, the time with each other, has given them a comfort with each other that Porthos never would have expected.

The room smells of sandalwood oil Aramis is using and the lemon tree in the courtyard. They’re doing this just after their morning meal and warm light floods in from the windows.

“This would be easier—“ Porthos grunts under the push of Aramis’ hand, “—this would be easier if I had something to focus on besides how sharp Aramis’ knuckles are."

Athos slots his knife under the skin of his pear and peels a slice away from the core. “When my brother was ill, I’d read to him.” For half an instant, he looks surprised, as though the words were out of his mouth before he had even decided to share this bit of his past. He dares a glance at them, and Porthos rewards his bravery with a warm smile.

“If I sent for books in the right languages, would you read to me?"

Another slice of pear comes away, and Athos takes a moment to eat it before answering. “I could, yes."

“You wouldn’t even have to send for them,” Aramis says. “Athos has a book already."

Athos’ face goes to stone. “What makes you say that?"

“I’ve seen it in your room, on the table on the far side of your bed.” Aramis digs the heel of his hand into the muscle at the side of Porthos’ belly. “It’s probably something dry. Strategy, or the Greek generals, most likely, but it'll make a nice change from listening to me trip over every other word during my lessons."

The memory makes a smile tug at Porthos’ mouth. Aramis has gotten much better, over the past months. Because he’s motivated and naturally insatiably curious, Aramis has learned more and faster than Porthos could ever have expected, but they still practice together every day, spending their afternoons and early evenings in the courtyard with the birds and Athos for company.

“And it will give you both something to do while I’m at the hospital besides sneaking off to the stables.” Porthos can’t see for sure, but from the way Athos’ ears go pink, Aramis must be glaring at them both.

“Was I supposed to ignore the note from my stable master and just leave the horses to whatever might be going on?” Porthos is trying to keep from sounding too petulant or stubborn.

“No, you were supposed to be resting and healing. The Almighty Himself only knows how much you’ve set yourself back by tearing all over the city to look after horses who were being perfectly well cared for as it was."

Porthos turns until he can look up at Aramis. “I was in a cart, with Athos there to help me, I was hardly tearing all over the city."

Aramis snorts. He rubs a bit more oil between his palms and circles his knuckles over the small of Porthos’ back. “Which brings me to another point. You,” he jabs a finger at Athos, “are a terrible physician’s assistant. Instead of keeping him here to mend, you encourage his exertions.” Porthos turns his head so he can see Athos’ reaction.

“You said he should try getting around on the crutch more.” Athos puts another slice of pear in his mouth and never breaks eye contact with Aramis. He sounds bored, and Porthos almost laughs out loud.

“Yes, around the _house_. Perhaps around the courtyard once or twice once he gets comfortable. Not clear out the western gates!"

Porthos watches Athos chew and swallow, the pale skin of his neck warm in the morning light. “Perhaps for the sake of your patients, your future instructions should be more specific."

“Athos, don’t antagonize him while he’s doing this, he just takes it out on me."

There’s that smile again, the little curl of Athos’ mouth and the conspiratorial lift of one eyebrow. “My apologies."

Athos, so angry at the start, has become a perfect companion, with his dry wit and his instinctive thoughtfulness .“Will you read your book to me?” Porthos asks.

The smile fades and there’s a furrow between his eyebrows and a look on his face that’s not anger, but something more like uncertainty. “If that’s what you want."

“Go get it,” Aramis says. "If I leave you both here reading then I might be able to convince myself you’ll stay home."

Athos leaves without a word, his forehead still creased. Porthos sighs and wishes he’d asked Athos to stay, had said he could go later. Now he’s alone with Aramis without the distraction of Athos’ company. In all the times they’ve done this, there have only been a few when they were alone together. Sometimes Hamid is in the room. Increasingly, Athos comes to talk to them, especially since Porthos started being able to move around more and has taken to bracing himself on Athos or Aramis when he’s feeling unsteady.

This is one of the rare times when it is just the two of them, and Porthos has nothing to focus on but the slip and drag, the push and twist, of Aramis’ oil-slick hands on his skin. In the quiet, he can hear his own breath and the little hum Aramis gives as he digs in again with his fingertips. The feel of Aramis' palms settling on his back makes Porthos’ cock begin to swell and take notice.

He could tell himself that it’s simply being touched after many months without intimate contact, but he knows the truth. Aramis is beautiful to Porthos, Athos is as well. He’s found them compelling since their first meeting on the field, but here in his house he’s come to know who they are and he finds himself more attracted every day. His pulse throbs in his cock and Porthos tries to will it down, his shoulders bunching with the effort. Aramis sees, but to Porthos’ great relief, he doesn’t seem to realize the cause.

“Don’t worry, he might be a little nervous, but once Athos gets started, I’m sure you’ll both enjoy the time reading.”

Porthos nods and tries to let his shoulders go slack. Feeling Aramis touch him again, his cock grows stiffer, enough that the rub of the linen sheet against him is adding to his misery. It'll be over soon, at least. Aramis has stroked and pushed all the tightness from Porthos’ shoulders and back, he’s dug his thumbs into the hollows just above Porthos’ ass, they should be almost finished.

Aramis draws the sheet up over his shoulders, and Porthos is trying to decide whether to shoo him out of the room so he can dress in peace or just lay still until his skin forgets the feel of Aramis’ hands and his erection subsides. Before he can make up his mind, he feels Aramis tug at the bottom of the sheet where it’s draped over his feet and push up.

“Aramis?"

“You’re working one leg more than the other now that you’re on your feet.” He pauses, laughing. “Well, on one foot, anyway. Still, this leg isn’t used to doing all the work and will need to be loosened as well.” He settles the sheet over the tops of Porthos’ thighs and pats the outside of his right knee. “Roll over for me."

Porthos freezes. He knows that if he rolls over, the line of his cock will be unmistakable. Aramis will see it pushing against the sheet and — What would his reaction be? Would he leave, claiming his religious virtue to be at risk? Or would he mock Porthos for his inability to control his body at the slightest touch of a man who is not his lover, a man who only recently be called his friend.

“On second thought, don’t,” Aramis says, and Porthos sends up a quiet prayer of gratitude. “You’d only undo all my hard work trying to twist around, and I can certainly reach most of it from here.” He taps the inside of Porthos’ knees. “Spread your legs a little."

Porthos buries his face in his pillow and takes a moment to be grateful that this one time, his cock is tucked up against the curve of his hip rather than between his thighs. The legs of his braies are too loose to have hidden anything. He bends one knee slightly and feels the cool air of the room hit his sweat-damp skin.

Aramis scoops his hand under the knee of Porthos’ good leg and lifts slightly, rolling the knuckles of his other hand against the front of Porthos’ thigh. He lowers Porthos’ leg again and concentrates on the sides and back. The friction and heat of his touch are so good. _So good_. Porthos tries to picture how they must look, him splayed out against the sheets and Aramis bent over him, stroking him with oiled hands. He can’t stifle a groan at the image.

“You really have been overworking this side. If you and Athos aren’t going to come to your senses and stay at home, at least let me know sooner that you’re in pain."

Porthos chews at his lower lip and nods. Aramis digs his fingertips into the inside of Porthos’ thigh, “Galen showed how many muscles make up this area of your body, and on you, every one of them is tense.” Porthos clenches his jaw and tries not to grind his hips into the bed or beg Aramis to touch him everywhere.

“This one works together with—“ Aramis reaches around to grip the outside of Porthos’ leg now, “— this one. Together they help stabilize you, so let’s try to be nicer to them, yeah?"

Porthos wants this to be over immediately, and he never wants it to end. He wants Aramis to drag his fingers up the inside of Porthos’ thigh and stroke his balls, grip Porthos' ass and tighten his fingers enough to bruise. He wants--

There’s a knock on the doorframe and Athos steps in. “I told Yusuf to bring up something to drink. I hope you don’t mind."

Porthos swallows hard, glad to have something else to focus on. “Not at all, my home is your home.” That’s plainer than he’s ever put it before, more generous as well. He’s always told them that they are guests, not prisoners, and let them know that he enjoys their company, but every day he comes closer to telling them he wishes they would come back when the fighting is over. It’s ridiculous, of course. Aramis has his order and his hospital to return to. Athos will follow his commander wherever he's needed. All Porthos can do is make them welcome while they’re here. After he’s healed and returns to fighting, there won’t be any reason for them to stay, and when the fighting is over, there won’t be any reason for them to come back.

Aramis covers Porthos’ legs and wipes his hands clean with a damp rag. “Do you need help dressing?"

“No,” Porthos shakes his head. “I can get my shirt on myself. I’ll call Hamid for anything more involved.” He folds his arms under his head and grins up at Aramis. “Though it’s hardly worth getting all dressed up if all Athos and I are going to do is sit here and read."

Aramis rolls his eyes and shakes his head, swatting Porthos on the shoulder. “You are sent to try my soul, both of you.” As he walks out of the room, he squeezes Athos’ arm. “I’ll see you both in the garden later.” Athos smiles and nods.

Without Aramis’ chatter and energy, the room is quieter, slower. Athos tosses Porthos his shirt and sinks onto the low couch by the foot of the bed.

“What is your book about?” Porthos asks.

Athos ducks his head and looks up at Porthos from under a fall of hair, then drops his gaze to his book again. “It’s about a knight who is separated from the woman he loves and must find his way back to her.”

Porthos props himself up on both elbows and stares at Athos. This quiet, private man, this man capable of such gentleness and such intensity, never ceases to surprise Porthos. They have lived in the same house for months, but Porthos would never have guessed that the little book by Athos’ bed would be a romance. He is pleased and startled, but he tries to keep both emotions off his face.

“I’ve got books like that on my shelves, too."

Athos looks up, startled. “Do you?"

“No one wants to read about strategy and war all the time.” He smiles at Athos and something in Athos’ face settles, his shoulders relaxing and his smile softening.

“Come on,” Porthos says. “Let’s have a few pages while we’re waiting to make sure Aramis is gone, then we can go visit your horse."

Athos grins. “They’re your horses."

Porthos snorts. “One night she’s going to follow you home from the stable, and we’re going to have to teach her to duck to get through the door.” He waves at the book. “I want to hear about the knight."

Sitting back against the arm of the couch, Athos stretches his legs out in front of him and flips to the first page. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more measured, and Porthos feels himself slipping into the story almost before the first line is finished. “ Arthur, the good king of Britain,” Athos reads, “whose prowess teaches us that we, too, should be brave and courteous, held a rich and royal court upon that precious feast-day which is always known by the name of Pentecost.”

By the time there’s a tap at the door, Athos is well into the story, and Porthos is surprised. It feels like no time at all has passed.

“Seating myself beside the spring, I rested there awhile,” Athos looks up from the book as Yusuf enters, bearing a pitcher of water and a tiny bowl of sekanjabin syrup to mix with it. Two goblets are tucked into his belt. “Oh, Yusuf, thank you.” He tries the thanks again in Arabic and Yusuf gives him a proud smile. They’ve been trying to perfect his pronunciation lately. Porthos nods at Yusuf, giving him leave to return to work, then he turns to Athos.

“Well don’t stop there,” Porthos says, and Athos grins.

“I rested there awhile, not daring to follow after the knight for fear of committing some rash act of madness."

Porthos sips his drink and rests his head back against his pillow, letting Athos’ words flow over him like water. Soon, too soon for Porthos, Athos snaps the book closed.

“That's as good a place as any to pause. If we don’t go now, we won’t be back before the midday meal, and you’ll be late for Aramis’ lesson."

“But—“

“The story isn’t going anywhere, Porthos."

“When I am finished teaching Aramis to read my language, then you can teach me to read yours, and then I won’t have to wait for you to read to me.” He tries to sound irritated rather than amused, but if the smile on Athos’ face is anything to go by, he’s failing.

“I’ll get my things and be back here to help you down the stairs."

 

They still take a cart to the stable, Porthos has only been on the crutch for a few days, and he’s far too weak still to be able to walk to the west gate and beyond. The sun is driving into them, the air shimmering over the walls, but thanks to the river, the riding fields are still green and lush.

Athos helps him down from the cart and looks up to see Porthos’ stable master coming out to greet them.

“You’re late.” His French is flawless, and his dark eyes are laughing. “I wondered if we’d see you at all."

At first, Athos had been surprised to hear his own language spoken by someone other than Aramis, but he’s grown accustomed to the seamless dance back and forth from French to Arabic during conversations in the stable.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Athos says.

“No, it’s not,” Porthos says. “I’m the one who asked you to read in the first place.”

Shaking his head at both Porthos and Athos, he says, “It hardly matters to me, but your ladies are going to need more of an apology, I think. Last time your best girl felt ignored, she stepped on your foot while we were saddling her."

Porthos turns Athos. “D’Artagnan is right, and that should be a lesson to all of us. Never keep a woman waiting."

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. “I have a supplier in my office I need to finish up with and then maybe I’ll join you in the stalls.” He smiles at them both before he leaves, and his eyes are perhaps a bit brighter for Athos.

Porthos settles his arm over Athos’ shoulder and tucks the crutch more securely under his shoulder. “Let’s go get our apologies started, shall we?” It’s still hard to keep his weight shifted correctly, so Porthos leans on Athos, enjoying the feel of Athos’ solid shoulder under his hand and Athos’ warmth against his side.

In her stall, Porthos’ favorite horse looks over her shoulder at them and then turns away. “Hayam,” he says. “Don’t be like that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. It won’t happen again.” Athos lifts the bar to the stall so that Porthos can make his way inside with an undignified hopping shuffle. He apologizes a bit more, his big hands smoothing over her neck, until she drapes her head over his shoulder, huffing a breath down his back. All is forgiven, apparently. Athos bolsters Porthos up from the other side.

“Go on, go sit on the stool. Aramis would lose his mind if he could see her leaning on you like that. I’ll take care of her."

“You’ve got your own to worry about,” Porthos says.

“Again, she’s not my horse, she’s yours, and I can manage her grooming as well.” The black two stalls down looks over at them and shakes her head. “Yes, Noor,” Athos says. “I see you, too. I’ll be over soon."

Porthos leans back until he’s resting against the wall of the stall. “I’ve never seen a horse take to a person as she took to you. She’s _your_  horse, Athos. You should go see to her, I can ask d’Artagnan to look after Hayam when he gets back."

Athos picks a speck of mud from the bay’s neck. “He’s the master of this stable, not your personal groom. I’m sure he has better things to do than join us."

“You’d think so. And he certainly doesn’t have to, he never did before, but every day we’ve made this trek, he comes out here. Maybe it’s not for the enjoyment of my company.” Porthos spreads his hands, palms up.

“Do you think he worries about you out here with your injury?"

Porthos shakes his head. He hasn’t missed the smiles d’Artagnan gives Athos, hasn’t missed how d’Artagnan asks Athos’ opinion on nearly everything. “I think it’s more likely you that brings him out here."

Athos’ look is resigned, but not surprised. “He doesn’t trust an enemy soldier alone with you."

“You’re not his enemy, he’s a Christian. Or he was. His father was a pilgrim."

“Then why would he be bothered that I’m here."

The silence stretches out until Porthos gives up waiting for Athos to figure it out on his own. “You’re a smart man, Athos, but you can be dumb as a post.” Neither of them speaks for a minute, Athos not dignifying that with a response and Porthos trying to find the right words. “I don’t think he’s bothered that you’re here. I don’t think he minds. I think he likes that you’re here."

Athos’ blank face speaks volumes.

Porthos lays his cards on the table. “I think he likes you. Particularly."

“If that’s true, it’s a terrible mistake,” Athos says. Porthos had never even considered revealing his own growing attraction to Athos, let alone daring to hope it might be returned, but something precious and small inside him dies anyway.

“I see. I know it’s a sin for your faith as much as it is for mine, but given how many of our poems and stories are about that kind of love—“

“That is entirely beside the point,” Athos says. He’s resting his elbow on Hayam’s shoulder and gesturing with the comb. “I’m simply a totally unsuitable choice for his affections. I’m a prisoner of war with no fortune, no title, and no future. Aside from my parents, everyone who has ever made the mistake of opening their heart to me has ended up miserable.” He turns back to the horse and strokes her ear. “Or worse.” Porthos gives him the silence, lets him work through his thoughts. “Certainly I’m not a prize worth risking death if discovered.” Athos scrubs at his forehead with the hand that’s not holding the comb. "If you’re looking to matchmake, you should send Yusuf out here on an errand. He’s got prospects and a good heart."

What has not escaped Porthos’ attention, what’s making his heart jump in his chest, is that Athos has said nothing about this kind of relationship being evil. He hasn’t suggested that d’Artagnan should be put to death for even looking.

“I doubt Yusuf would be interested,” Porthos says, not even sure what he’s talking about anymore, just trying to keep his heart from spinning impossible dreams.

One side of Athos’ mouth curls in a smile, and Porthos has to concentrate to hear Athos over the rushing in his ears. “You didn’t see the way he looked at one of the guards Hamid put on us when we first arrived."

He should stop here. Porthos knows that pushing the issue is only asking for disaster, but he can’t seem to control his mouth. “Most of the soldiers in your army would think that men who look at other men that way should be whipped. At least."

Athos’ face flushes and he turns his back on Porthos again, dragging his hand over the horse’s back. “My father hired excellent tutors. We also have poetry and stories about that kind of love."

Porthos’ opens and closes his hands where they’re fisted in the fabric of his trousers. “Some of the ones I read were beautiful,” he says.

Pausing in his attention to the horse, Athos turns so he look over his shoulder and see Porthos. He’s quiet for what seems like a long time, and when he finally speaks, he’s looking at the floor, not at Porthos. “Some of the ones I read were as well."

The things they’re not saying stretch out between them. Porthos thinks about the boy who made him realize how wide love could reach. He'd been with Porthos through much of their training and had died ten minutes into their first real battle. Watching the boy fall from his horse, Porthos had dropped to the ground to help him back up. It had been too late, far too late, and the only thing Porthos could do was hold the boy’s head in his lap and kiss his mouth and wish he’d been braver while they were both still breathing. He wonders if there is a boy like that in Athos’ past.

The only sounds are the horses moving and the birds in the rafters, and Porthos knows that if he wants to find out, if he dares to ask, Athos will tell him the truth. Before he can open his mouth, d’Artagnan steps into the stable and that perfect moment pops like a soap bubble.

“Would you like for me to see to Noor?” d’Artagnan asks.

“No,” Athos says. “I’ll do that. Would you mind finishing with Hayam though?"

“Of course, it would be my pleasure.” D’Artagnan’s smile is bright and warm, but Porthos can see how Athos is careful not to let their fingers touch as he hands d’Artagnan the comb.

At Porthos’ insistence, Athos saddles Noor and takes her out to stretch her legs. With d’Artagnan’s help, Porthos makes his way to the fence to watch them. The sun is catching the auburn in Athos’ hair, and his back is straight and strong. Porthos remembers the first time he saw Athos on a horse, months ago now, and a world away from here, but in the saddle, Athos still carries himself like a soldier. Wheeling the horse around at the far side of the ring, Athos raises a hand in greeting to them. D’Artagnan’s smile is enormous, nearly adoring. He waves back to Athos and cheers him on.

Porthos misses riding, he misses the feeling of speed and the connection with his horse, but watching Athos’s joy is crushing any wistfulness. For the space of a heartbeat, Porthos imagines them riding together, taking off across the polo fields, chasing down a laughing Aramis on a horse of his own. Shaking his head, he drives it away.

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asks.

“I’m fine, just a little sore. I might have overdone it, but don’t tell Athos I said that.”

D’Artagnan waves Athos back in. “Your secret is safe with me, but if you don’t leave now you’ll miss your midday meal,” he says. He smiles at Athos as he approaches. “Let me have her, I’ll make sure she’s looked after."

Athos dismounts and hands d’Artagnan the reins, thanking him. Porthos slips his hand over Athos’ shoulders and settles his crutch against his side.

“We’ll see you tomorrow maybe?” d’Artagnan says and though he’s looking at Porthos as he asks, he looks to Athos for the answer.

“If we can, yes,” Porthos says.

“Good,” d’Artagnan says, still smiling at Athos. “The ladies would miss you."

There’s an opportunity for Athos to crush this, to say something so cutting that d’Artagnan can be in no doubt of his opinion, but Athos only smiles politely and says, “We should be going."

 

They beat Aramis home by only a handful of minutes.

“Oh good,” Aramis says when he finds them in the _iwan_. “I worried I wasn’t leaving you enough time to sneak home."

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Athos says. Porthos tries to look innocent.

"Of course. I'm sure you both sat and read all day. Perhaps you napped in the shade?"

“Yes. Precisely,” Athos says. He picks one of Hayam’s hairs from Porthos’ shoulder.

"If you're both finished lying to me, I have a new anatomy drawing I'd like to use for today's lesson. There are too many words I don't know."

Porthos smiles and gestures to the sofa next to him.

 

After the evening meal and prayers, Aramis and Hamid help Porthos up the stairs to his rooms. Before they can get settled in their usual spots, Athos and Porthos at the chessboard and Aramis at the corner desk, Aramis stops them.

"I have an idea," he says. His eyes are bright and happy, a look Porthos has come to associate with Aramis thinking he's got his brain wrapped around a tricky idea. Aramis has had this expression more and more as he unlocks the secrets of the books Ibn al-Mutran left him, and it has come to haunt Porthos' dreams as well. Aramis on fire with enthusiasm and passion is dangerously attractive.

"Is this like the night you dissected a sheep's eye over there while we tried to ignore the smell?" Athos asks.

Aramis cocks an eyebrow. "That was a legitimate scientific exercise."

"It was pretty bad," Porthos says.

Throwing his hands up, Aramis grunts, disgusted. "No, you asses, this is just something I want to test.” He crosses his arms over his chest. "Until now we've been treating Porthos' muscle tightness after it happens, I want to try a more..." he trails off, hunting for the right word, "aggressive approach."

"Aggressive," Athos says. Porthos' mouth goes dry. "Last week you dug your elbow into his back, is that not aggressive enough?"

Aramis rolls his eyes. "Not like that."

Like what, then? Porthos' mind is spinning at the terrible possibilities for 'aggressive.'

"Athos, if an army is approaching your territory, you have two options." Aramis puts one hand out. "You can wait for them to arrive, full strength," he puts his other hand out, "or you can advance yourself, and take away some of their advantages."

Porthos swallows and forces his hand open around the handle of the crutch. "You want to advance on it?"

"I want to try treating the soreness before it starts. I know you two were out today, perhaps we can prevent you from waking up in pain tomorrow."

He wants to massage Porthos again. For the second time in a day, Porthos will need to lock himself down enough to deal with Aramis' hands on him without moaning aloud. He can almost feel the rough spots on Aramis' palms dragging down his back.

"We can try that," Porthos says.

"Good!" Aramis claps his hands together. "Trousers off and get onto the bed, please."

Trying to keep the crutch stable under his arm, Porthos struggles with the knot on the drawstring for his trousers. Silently, Athos comes and takes it out of his hands. He pulls the knot loose and jerks at the fabric on either side of Porthos' hips until it falls to the floor, leaving Porthos in his shirt and braies. Breathless at the closeness, at having Athos perform such an intimate act, Porthos can only take Athos’ arm when it’s offered, and kick the trousers free from around his feet.

"If you two have all you need," Athos says. "I'm more tired than usual, I think I'm going to go to bed early. I'll see you both in the morning."

"Of course," Aramis says, his head cocked slightly, confused. "We'll be fine. Good night."

Porthos swallows, finding his voice. "Good night, Athos."

Nodding at them both, Athos leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

"You're probably tired, too," Aramis says. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Porthos hops over to the bed, careful to keep the weight off his injured leg, and goes to stretch out, face down.

"Not tonight. I want to really be able to reach the muscles around the knee and hip. So, on your back, please."

For a tiny moment, Porthos contemplates falling down, just to get out of this. Before he goes any further down that road, Aramis takes him by the elbow and guides him onto the bed. He pushes Porthos' braies up his thighs and reaches for the sandalwood oil they've taken to keeping by Porthos' bedside.

"It's not like Athos to retire so early." Aramis rubs some oil between his palms and the smell of it fills the room, warm and spicy. Porthos knows that after they leave he'll have to get rid of it all, he'll never be able to smell sandalwood again without wanting Aramis' hands on him. "Did he overdo it at the stable?"

"No," Porthos says, feeling the muscle of his thigh jump under Aramis' touch. He tries to distract himself by thinking about the stable, about his horse, about the smell of the grass on the polo field, but that only brings him back to his split-second dream of riding with Athos, tearing across the field towards Aramis' smile. He takes a deep breath and tries again, maybe if he talks more he'll focus on the touching less. "He had a bit of a surprise, but that's not enough to send him to bed. Maybe he is just tired."

Aramis cups his hands under Porthos' knee, digging his thumbs into the place where the big muscle of his thigh joins the bone. "Something surprised Athos? That sounds like a story I want to hear."

Porthos laughs and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from thinking about how Aramis' slender palm is spread over the side of his hip. "Best not to, wouldn't want to scandalize you."

The hands stop and Aramis looks up at him, pure disdain on his face. "Porthos, I hear confession from soldiers. Unless one of you actually fucked one of the horses, you won't come close to shocking me."

"I'll look at your armies a bit differently from now on."

"You're stalling."

"You know I told you about the stable master?"

Aramis' hands have started moving again, pushing at Porthos' hip, stretching the muscles around it. “Carrying on his father’s work? That one?"

Porthos lets out the breath he's been holding and tries to think about anything except for the way he can feel his pulse in his groin. "That's the one. I just told Athos I thought there might be some... interest."

Still moving, still working the muscles of Porthos' upper thigh, Aramis says, "You think your stable master has a certain affection for Athos. I see." His voice is a little stilted and Porthos wonders if he's crossed the line, if after facing Porthos on a battlefield this is what finally pushes Aramis away. "Was. Was Athos upset?"

If nothing else, the tension in the air is taking Porthos' mind off the drag of Aramis’ calluses.

“Don’t think so. He mostly seemed worried that d’Artagnan had terrible taste, said he’d be better off with Yusuf.”

Aramis laughs, and Porthos feels his neck droop, free from tension he hadn’t even known he was holding. Pulling Porthos’ arm out to the side, Aramis digs into the muscles of his shoulder. He’s quiet for a minute, Porthos can almost hear him searching for words.

“And were you upset to hear that someone you trust as much as your stable master might have feelings for another man?"

Porthos has faced armies, pitched battles where the air stank of death even before the first blow landed. There’s a knot like that in his gut now, and the same need to be brave, to take the risk.

“When I was a boy, maybe. Before I knew anything.” He shifts under Aramis’ hands and tries not to gasp as Aramis’ palm skates up his side. “Not now. I’ve seen towns burned to the ground, children starved out of cities under siege. Two men in a bed can never look like real evil, not after that.” Aramis’ hands have gone still, they’re a warm weight on Porthos’ arm, anchoring him in the moment, keeping him from going too far into those memories. "For a while, I thought it only happened because there were no women around, but you spend this many years looking death in the eye, and you learn the truth. About yourself. About the world. As long as you’re not hurting anyone else, take love where you can find it."

The room is quiet, then. Porthos can hear the insects in the trees in the courtyard and the quiet murmur of Yusuf downstairs talking to the cook. Aramis is running his hands down Porthos’ arm over and over, but he isn’t saying a word.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos says, finally. “I know that—“

“No. It’s. I’m not offended. I’m a monk, Porthos but, I know what the world is like.” Moving to stand at the head of Porthos’ bed, Aramis runs his hands down Porthos’ chest, the friction warming his skin in the evening air. The steady slide of flesh on flesh is more than Porthos can handle, and he’s seconds from reaching for the sheet when Aramis speaks again. "I’m just not used to being able to talk about it openly. This is the kind of conversation that happens in confessional booths or dark tents.” He huffs a laugh. “Or those two bathhouses in Constantinople."

Porthos barks a laugh. “What would you know about those?"

“Porthos, come on. I haven’t always been a monk. And even if I had been, I’m not deaf or blind. Soldiers gossip.” Aramis pauses and when he speaks again his voice is brighter. "From the way he handled the knot on your trousers, maybe Athos knows about them as well."

There’s laughter in Aramis’ voice, he’s teasing. He’s trying to find levity in this conversation, and Porthos knows it, but he feels his cock jump anyway, just for the memory of Athos’ fingers against his own and Athos’ hands tugging at the loose fabric. He’s done so well at keeping his body under control, but it only takes this one thought to unravel him.

“Not a chance,” Porthos says, trying to match Aramis’ humor.

“You could both do much worse,” Aramis says, and Porthos is so startled he almost flinches. It’s one thing to not mind talking about the love between two men in the abstract, it’s entirely another to suggest you’d condone such a relationship between two men you live with. Between your friends. Porthos thinks about Athos guiding Noor around the field, the way he leans forward over her neck to speak to her, and for a second, Porthos dreams.

Aramis starts to talk again, about stalls he passes along the road and the fountain at the hospital, but at the same time he’s pushing his fingers into the meat of Porthos’ chest just below his collar bone and no amount of distracting chatter can draw Porthos’ attention away from that.

When one of Aramis’ hands skirts the edge Porthos’ nipple, he isn’t fast enough to bite back a short hiss. He’s more than half-hard now, the outline of his cock beginning to press against the fabric of his braies, there’s no hiding it. Aramis must know, but he doesn’t say a word.

With a little more oil on his hands, Aramis cups one hand over Porthos’ hip and another over the curve of his side and pushes down. Porthos can feel the pressure pulling at his muscles and joints, can feel things loosen and drop open. It feels incredible, but it’s nothing compared to the illicit thrill of Aramis thumb slipping just under the waist of Porthos’ braies as he pulls back. He didn’t do it on purpose, probably didn’t even notice, but Porthos can feel his own hands digging into the linen sheet under him.

“One last spot,” Aramis says. He moves to stand next to the bed and reaches across, sliding his hands under the far side of Porthos’ torso. Rolling Porthos towards him, Aramis starts to press and stretch the muscles along Porthos’ back. Trying to brace himself, Porthos adjusts his body slightly and then his breath catches in his throat. He goes stone still for the space of a heartbeat.

Porthos’ movement, small as it was, has put the length of his cock, full and hard, against Aramis’ thigh. As Aramis continues to work over the muscles, a press of knuckles here and the heel of his hand dug in there, Porthos concentrates on resisting the nearly overwhelming urge to rock his hips against Aramis’ muscled leg.

He wants Aramis to hold still, to push against him, to rut and fuck until he covers them both in his release. When the initial rush has passed he wants to feel Aramis over him, their skin meeting everywhere it can and see Aramis’ face as he comes undone. Instead, he grips the edge of the bed and focuses on his breathing, on keeping his little moans to himself and not driving Aramis from the room with his base urges.

Aramis stops, and Porthos is sure he knows what’s coming, but Aramis only tugs Porthos’ knee up so Porthos can roll a bit further forward and brace himself on it. His erection is hidden now, covered by his thigh and folds of fabric and Porthos can almost look Aramis in the eye again.

“I. I should get myself to bed, as well,” Aramis says. "I’ll see you in the morning. Let’s hope this has helped avoid some of the pain and tension you might otherwise feel tomorrow."

Porthos, feeling the pain of his cock as it aches for touch, any touch, nods and offers a smile. “Thank you, Aramis."

The door clicks closed behind Aramis and Porthos pushes himself over onto his back again. He drapes one arm over his eyes and groans in frustration. If he wants any sleep tonight, there is only one thing to do. He dips his fingers in the pot of oil and then stoppers it again, putting it on his bedside table.

Blowing out the lamp, Porthos drops his head to his pillow and slides one hand down the front of his braies. He’s hard and so hot, even against his own hand. He thinks about everything he’s pushed down all day. Over and over the images come, Athos’ fingers on the spine of his book and Aramis’ hair in the sunlight, Athos voice as he read and Aramis mouth as it sounded out a new word. He comes hard but silent, biting down on his lower lip to stifle a grunt.

When he sleeps, he dreams of two voices laughing together, and the smell of sandalwood.

 

He does wake up the next day with almost no soreness. Aramis declares the experiment a success and says ideally Porthos should have his muscles treated at the end of every day that he and Athos go out to the stables. With the promise that he'll take it easy, that he'll be particularly careful on uneven ground, Porthos convinces Aramis to accept twice a week, instead.

Three days later, Porthos is flat on his front again, hiding his groans under deep breaths and incredibly grateful to have remembered to tuck his traitorous cock up against his belly. Athos reads to them while Aramis works and it's almost calming. There were lemons with the evening meal and Aramis' fingers still smell sharp from them as they pass over Porthos' shoulders again and again. If Porthos concentrates on the smell, on Athos' voice, on the feel of the sheets under his fingers, he can almost forget how close Aramis is, can almost ignore the way Aramis' fingers catch on the waistband of his braies as he rubs over the small of Porthos' back. Almost.

 

The next week finds them alone again. Athos is recovering from a cold, and after he nearly falls asleep in his lamb stew, he's sent to bed by both of them.

"He's overdone it," Aramis says. "And so have you. Don't think I haven't noticed you favoring your left side as you reach for things.” Porthos tries to look guilty, but Aramis’ chiding concern only makes him feel warm and comforted. "Upstairs with you, I'll help you get your shirt and trousers off." He tucks himself under Porthos' arm and helps him up the stairs. Hamid rushes to help, and the two of them get Porthos stripped down and settled into bed without too much fuss. Hamid says goodnight to Porthos and glares at Aramis on his way out the door.

"I could rescue his children from a burning building, and I think he'd still hate me."

Porthos grins. "Probably, but it's your fault for being a heathen." Aramis rolls his eyes. "Help me roll over?"

Aramis shakes his head. "No, tonight I thought. I would like. On your back tonight, I think." He nods as if the decision has been made now. "Tug the legs of your braies up, please," he says, reaching for the oil.

The room seems stifling and small, the two of them too close to one another with too little air for them both to breathe. Porthos is struggling to keep his body from reacting before Aramis even puts a hand on him. He pictures battlefield injuries, going through the worst of them one by one until his pulse returns to normal. He's so focused, his eyes closed and his attention elsewhere, that the first touch of Aramis' hands takes him by surprise. Porthos feels Aramis' hand on his chest, and he gasps. He bites down on it, but it's too late. Sandalwood-scented hands are moving across Porthos' shoulders, digging into the muscles at the side of his neck, and Porthos can't force his mind to be anywhere but here, with this beautiful man.

On most nights, between the two of them they keep up a steady stream of chatter while Aramis works, but tonight Porthos can barely get a word out of him.

"I didn't ask," Porthos says. "How is the old man with the eye problems?"

"Fine," Aramis says. "Recovering well. He can see light and dark now, can see shadows moving, but he can't bring things into focus." He falls silent again, and Porthos waits for more than a minute to see if Aramis has anything else to offer on the subject.

"And the doctor from Aleppo, is he still giving you trouble?" Porthos nearly arches into Aramis' touch as he pushes into the muscles along the sides of Porthos' torso.

"He left. Went home to care for a sick mother."

After that, Porthos stops trying. He lets the silence stretch on and on, filled only with the sounds of Aramis' hands moving over his skin and his own quiet sighs. With nothing to distract him, nothing to pull his mind away from how close Aramis is as he reaches across Porthos' body, Porthos feels himself get harder and harder. His eyes are clenched shut but he can feel how his length is straining at the fabric of his braies and he knows how obvious it must be.

Aramis has to know. He _has_  to. His hands have been on Porthos' good thigh and both hips, there's no way he could have missed it. Then again, surely a man of his standing, of his vocation, would shrink back from coming close to him like this, and Aramis has not stopped touching him, not once. Even now, the heels of Aramis' hands are pushing into the muscles on the right side of Porthos' torso. Porthos is ready to assume that Aramis is ignoring it, that it's the kind of thing that must happen regularly enough during everyday medical treatment. He's prepared to assume it's business as usual when he feels Aramis' hands push up his chest and the calluses on both palms drag over his nipples at the same time.

Porthos grunts at the touch and tries not to push up into it. Aramis' hands circle, not pushing too hard, and then continue up and over his shoulders and down both arms. He pushes his palms into the hollows of Porthos' hips and digs in with his thumbs. The motion is pulling the fabric of Porthos' braies against his cock and it's all he can do to not whimper. Aramis' hands move up, thumbs still circling, and works the muscles of Porthos' belly, pushing his knuckles in. Up again, this time his fingers are skimming the bottoms of Porthos' chest and his thumbs are sweeping back and forth, gentle now, over Porthos' ribs. His mouth dry, Porthos is practically panting, his breath coming fast and shallow.

Once more, Aramis moves his hands up, and now his thumbs are circling, brushing, dragging right over Porthos' nipples. They're slightly out of sync, the left first, sweeping with the barest hint of pressure, then the right, the calluses stronger on that side. Porthos opens his mouth, so aroused that even his moan is caught in his throat, strangled by the feeling of Aramis' hands like this.

Porthos opens his eyes and finds Aramis looking back. When he sees Porthos looking, Aramis flinches.

“I’m s--" Aramis starts, pulling one hand back just a little.

"No," Porthos says, catching Aramis around the wrist. He presses Aramis' hand back down against him, his fingers curling around Aramis'.

"Okay," Aramis says. "Okay."

As gently as he can, Porthos guides Aramis' hand down, barely a finger's width, but down. “Yes?"

Aramis' "Yes," is little more than a breath.

Free from pretense, Aramis sighs, and his eyes grow soft at the same time his touch gets firmer. The hand in Porthos’ grip stays where it is, warm and solid against Porthos’ chest, but with his right hand, Aramis strokes him everywhere he can reach. His fingers run up Porthos’ throat and along the edge of his jaw. When he drags his fingernails down Porthos’ arm, Porthos groans through clenched teeth. Aramis touches his arms, his chest, his legs, over his belly and neck, and all the while his eyes never leave Porthos’.

They’re looking at each other when Aramis dips his fingers just inside the waistband of Porthos’ braies, as far as he can with the tie still knotted, and they don’t look away when Porthos grips at Aramis’ hand and rolls his hips up into Aramis’ touch. With his free hand, Porthos fumbles at the drawstring, tugging it open and pulling at the fabric until it’s laying loose and barely draped over his cock and hips. Aramis’ fingers twist in the hair below Porthos’ navel, and Porthos bites his lip, straining to keep his eyes open, to keep from losing himself in the moment. He wants to remember every second of this.

The hand Porthos is holding turns in his grip until their fingers lace together. Aramis’ face is flushed dark, Porthos can see his pulse jumping in his neck, but neither of them speaks. Aramis just stares at Porthos, keeping their eyes together as he slides the fabric of Porthos’ braies down around his thighs. The cooler air of the room hits Porthos’ cock and as he suddenly realizes how much he’s been dripping, weeping with want.

Aramis stops, his fingers curling and uncurling against Porthos’ skin, so close to his cock that Porthos can feel their heat. He opens his mouth, and Porthos wonders what he’ll say, how either of them can break this moment with sound. His face is pleading, and Porthos knows, Aramis is asking. He’s asking if Porthos is sure, if he’s ready, if he wants this.

Porthos squeezes Aramis’ hand and hitches his hips up, showing with his body and, he hopes, with his eyes, still locked with Aramis’, how very much he wants everything Aramis will give him.

Months of watching Aramis, of fantasizing about his fingers and his eyes, have done nothing to prepare Porthos for Aramis’ palm curling around his cock as Aramis stares straight at him. Porthos’ mouth drops open, his face twisting in a silent wail.

The room fills with the sound of Porthos’ breathing, his panting gasps and heavy sighs as Aramis’ hand moves. He doesn’t tease, that time is over. Aramis just holds Porthos in his grip and strokes him. It’s not fast, it would be wrong to rush this now. Instead, he’s just steady and firm, over and over. With every pass of his hand over Porthos’ cock, Aramis’ thumb rubs over the edge of the head, and Porthos can’t control the way his hips are curling up for just that touch.

Porthos’ grip is tight on the sheets and tighter on Aramis’ hand. He must be digging his fingernails in but Aramis never makes a sound, he never pulls back, and he never looks away. When Porthos gets close, he tries to hold it back. He’s begging himself, his body, to let him have this for as long as he can. Please, it may never happen again, please don’t let it be over too soon. Aramis must see the need in Porthos’ eyes, but instead of slowing down, he runs his thumb over Porthos’ hand where they’re joined together above Porthos’ heart and speeds up his strokes.

They’re still looking at each other as Porthos tumbles over the edge, hips bucking up, spattering his belly and Aramis’ hand with his come and sobbing so quietly it’s lost in the rustle of the sheets.

For a minute, maybe two, neither of them moves. Porthos finally closes his eyes for more than a blink, letting his head thump back against his pillow as he heaves a satisfied sigh. When he opens them again, Aramis is still looking at him, but now there’s a soft smile on his face. Porthos squeezes his hand once more and feels Aramis return the gesture before he pulls away, reaching for the damp cloth on the bedside table.

Most of the mess is on Aramis’ hand, but he wipes Porthos’ belly clean as well. He rinses the cloth in the bowl of water by the pitcher and hangs it over the back of the chair to dry. It’s cooler in the room, without Aramis’ touch on him, and Porthos is comforted to feel the press of Aramis’ hand on his shoulder again. Aramis pulls the sheet up over Porthos’ waist.

“Good?” he says, his thumb stroking against Porthos’ skin over and over.

Porthos nods. “Good.” He wants to say ‘thank you,' but no matter how he phrases it in his head, it sounds cheap, like he’s pleased with the services rendered. Instead, joins their hands once more, his fingers sliding between Aramis’ and hopes his pleasure shows on his face. “Good,” he says again.

Aramis’ answering smile is warm and the tease is back in his eyes. “You should rest, it’s not good to overexert yourself, your doctor would be quite upset."

“He’s a good man; he might understand."

“Goodnight, Porthos."

“Sleep well, Aramis."

Porthos imagines he’ll be awake, replaying this night in his head for hours, but he’s asleep almost before the door clicks shut.

 

He keeps waiting for things between himself and Aramis to become awkward, but Aramis treats Porthos just as he always has. His teasing is merciless, and he still chides them for their trips to the stable. Porthos gets better with the crutch, his body grows used the movements and how to hold himself. Even so, at least once a week, sometimes twice, he finds himself under Aramis’ hands again. More often than not, Athos is with them, reading quietly or advancing Porthos’ chess pieces as Porthos calls the moves from the bed.It’s become another part of their life together, a life that feels more right to Porthos with each passing day.

Some nights, though, are different. Aramis will linger behind after Athos takes himself to bed and Aramis will say, “On your back tonight, I think."

He’ll pull Porthos’ braies down and bring his stiff, weeping cock into the evening air and stroke him until Porthos is digging into his mattress with one hand and the other fisted and stuffed in his mouth, holding back his howls. Aramis never asks for anything in return, he seems to only want to watch Porthos’ pleasure.

Porthos whispers praise and thanks, when he can make words at all. “Good,” Aramis says as he watches Porthos twist up into his hands. “That’s good, just like that. Faster now?”

Yes, sometimes faster. Sometimes slow instead, dragging it out until climax is almost an afterthought. No matter how Porthos wants it, Aramis wants to give it to him just that way.

 

It might have gone on like that until they parted ways, until Porthos went back to war, but it doesn’t.

“Would you like to play from the bed?” Athos asks. The night air is cool, Autumn is coming, and Yusuf has brought the sesame crackers he knows Aramis likes, it is shaping up to be any other night. Athos pulls out his chair at the table by the window. “I can bring the board over to you while Aramis works if that would be better."

“No,” Aramis says. “It can wait. There’s no need to waste your chess time. We can do this after you retire.”

Athos nods his head. “As you say.” Porthos lowers himself into the chair opposite Athos, and nothing more is said about it until Athos takes his leave and they’re alone.

“You wanted to wait until after he left?” Porthos asks.

“Did you want me to work only your back tonight?"

Porthos’ eyes go wide. “No.”

Aramis helps Porthos up from his chair and over to the bed. “Then we had to wait until Athos went to bed, yes.” He pulls Porthos’ belt loose. “Unless—“ Aramis looks up from where his fingers are working free the knot holding Porthos’ trousers up. “Unless you want him here for it.” He pauses. “Do you?"

There isn’t enough air in the room. Porthos can feel his chest burning as he tries to breathe. Aramis is looking at him, and Porthos can barely meet his eyes.

Mercifully, Aramis doesn’t push.

“Now,” Aramis says, holding Porthos’ arm as Porthos settles himself on the bed, “as your physician, I recommend you tell me where the soreness is."

Porthos barks a laugh that echoes in the courtyard.

“Perhaps the ache is gone?” Aramis asks.

“Oh no, I’m still quite sore.”

“That’s common in this kind of recovery. Tell me when I’m close to the source of the complaint.” Aramis’ eyes are dancing, and Porthos thinks that with so little effort, he could love this man completely.

Aramis cups Porthos’ elbow, massaging above it. “How is this? Any better."

“Aramis!” Porthos is laughing now, enjoying the tease. This is freer than they’ve ever been with one another and it’s so, so easy.

“Perhaps here?” Aramis rubs Porthos’ thigh. It’s sore, yes, but nothing like the persistent thump of blood in Porthos’ rapidly hardening cock.

“Higher, I think,” Porthos plays along. Aramis’ palm rests over Porthos’ belly, his fingernails scratching through the hair above Porthos’ groin. “No, lower now."

“Here?” Aramis has cupped the inside of Porthos’ thigh, but his hand is so high that the backs of his knuckles are brushing against Porthos’ balls. He can feel them drawing tight at the touch, and he gasps and tries to push himself against Aramis’ skin.

“That’s almost got it,” Porthos says.

“I think I see the problem,” Aramis says, and with one hand he cups Porthos’ balls, stroking them with his fingers. “When this part of the body becomes full, it can be a source of serious problems. If you’d like, I can help you relieve the pressure."

Porthos grinds his teeth together and lets his hips rock up into Aramis’ grip. “That seems like a good place to start,” he says.

“Thankfully I’ve been practicing this technique, I think you’ll be feeling better quite soon.”

“Soon?"

“Now that I think about it, you’re right.” Aramis brings his other hand up to hold Porthos’ cock and Porthos can see it swell in his grip. Swiping his thumb through the drop gathering at the tip, Aramis slides the skin up and over the head of Porthos’ cock and back down. “This could take quite a while. Perhaps it would be best if you just make yourself comfortable while I work."

“Yes, that’s good,” Porthos says, and a moan follows. “That’s good. That’s so good.”

Aramis’ strokes rock up and over then back down and before long Porthos is twisting himself into Aramis’ touch, muttering under his breath every soldier’s curse he knows.

By the time Porthos comes he’s nearly insensible, promising Aramis anything he wants as long as he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He’s a big man, powerful and strong, but he’s weak under Aramis’ hands. If they make too much noise, between the cursing and the praise and the pleading and the groans, well, it’s late, not even the birds are awake to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're sure earning that rating now, eh? Gosh, I can't imagine what we could do to make things filthier. *twirls mustache*


	8. the world's map no longer concerns me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s another noise alongside the happy trickle and plink of the fountain, the low murmur of voices from a nearby room. They’re speaking in French, so it must be Aramis and Porthos. The idea of seeking out companionship like this would never have occurred to him before Damascus, but tonight he thinks that if they’re up and he’s up, perhaps they can all be awake together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, these should start coming faster now.

_your body is my map…  
the world's map no longer concerns me…_

-Nizar Qabbani

~

  


Damascus is starting to grow on him.

It will never be the idyllic France of his boyhood, but Athos is starting to love the soul of this city. Every dirty, bright, loud, spice-laden inch of it. When he and Porthos go out to the stables, they walk through neighborhoods of all kinds, past mosques and Coptic churches and markets and schools. He’s walked or ridden that same route every day for weeks, still every time he finds something new to see.

At night the heat of the day still lingers in the alleyways, radiating back out from the stones that soaked up the sun and warming the narrow streets, but the wider spaces, the gardens and market squares, are cool in the autumn air. Evenings are still full of the sound of insects and people in the streets, the bustle of the kitchen boys and busy feet going up and down the stairs.

This late at night, though, and with the air this cool, there is usually nothing but the burble of the fountain to keep Athos company. It’s happened a few times, he finds himself awake in the dead of night for any number of reasons, and sits with his thoughts for a few minutes, eventually letting the fountain lull him back to sleep.

Tonight it’s his neck that wakes him. He’d gone to reach the gate just as Noor sidestepped and he’d wrenched something. It hadn’t been bad during the evening meal, or even well into their chess game, but now it’s woken him out of a dead sleep. He’s not desperate enough to give in and let Aramis touch him the way that he’s been touching Porthos, not even if that’s what Athos has been dreaming of for weeks.

There’s another noise alongside the happy trickle and plink of the fountain, the low murmur of voices from a nearby room. They’re speaking in French, so it must be Aramis and Porthos. The idea of seeking out companionship like this would never have occurred to him before Damascus, but tonight he thinks that if they’re up and he’s up, perhaps they can all be awake together.

As he’s tugging up his trousers and wrapping his shirt around himself, Athos takes a second to wonder _why_  they’re awake. Then again, it’s possible he hasn’t been asleep that long. Perhaps they’re still talking about the diseases Aramis has been studying like they were when he left them. Pulling his door closed behind him, Athos sees that the shutters on Porthos’ windows are cracked slightly, and yes, it’s Aramis and Porthos. He’s across the balcony in half a dozen steps; he could be knocking on Porthos’ door in another two. Instead, he stops mid-stride.

Athos is almost even with the gap in the shutters, and he can see now what wasn’t visible from his door. Porthos is in bed, on his back with the legs of his braies pushed up to his groin and the waist pulled down. His dark cock is stark against the pale linen, and his hands are clenching and unclenching next to his hips. Standing next to the bed, bending over just a little, Aramis is. Aramis is. Athos feels a sweat break out on the back of his neck because Aramis is stroking Porthos’ cock with one hand and cupping his balls with the other. There’s a smirk on his face, and at the top of each stroke he twists his wrist, slipping his palm over the head of Porthos’ cock and Porthos jerks up into his grip.

The cool night air hits the damp skin on Athos’ neck and arms and he shivers; it seems to be the only movement he’s capable of. He wants to turn around and walk back to his room. At the same time, he wants to throw the shutters open and hiss at them about reckless disregard for their safety in a world where actions like that are punishable by death. Athos doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, he only stares, ears full of the thump of his own heart, fingers numb, and waits for the rest of his senses to come back to him.

It can’t be more than a second before the rush in his head fades, and he can hear the fountain again, but that means he can also hear them again. He’s close enough to hear everything they say.

“Do you think his hands would be this rough?” Aramis’ tone is teasing, and his eyes are narrowed. Porthos tosses his head and clenches his teeth, but doesn’t answer. Athos can see the big muscle at the side of Porthos’ jaw jumping. “I think they would be. I think all that time he spent with his sword, all the time he spends on the horses now, have given him magnificent calluses. I bet you’d be able to feel them dragging over your skin if he were touching you like this."

Athos blinks and tries to convince himself they are talking about anyone else. Anyone.

“I think about them, sometimes. When I’m watching him ride, I think about his hands. Especially now that we’re doing this, I think about them even more.” Porthos is almost growling the words, and Aramis has to put a hand on his hip to keep Porthos from jerking his hips up and hurting his leg.

“So do I,” Aramis says. “I watch him tear into a piece of fruit while we’re reading in the afternoon and I want to feel those fingers on me, opening me the same way."

Athos wishes he could be angry with them, could burst into the room and remind them that they are carelessly participating in deadly sin and they haven’t even bothered to close the window all the way. He wants to be furious and rage at them, but because he knows, he can’t deny, that they’re talking about him, the only thing he can do is stand and stare and try not to come in his pants. One hand is clenched at his side, and the other has a punishing grip on his cock. He’s trying so hard not to buck up into his hand as he watches Aramis bring Porthos close to the edge and then back off. Porthos is groaning now, his hands grabbing at Aramis’ arms, trying to speed him up, but Aramis won’t be rushed. Athos can almost see the thump of Porthos’ pulse in his neck and he wants to put his lips on just that spot and lick the salt from Porthos’ skin. This man, so beautiful in even his quietest moments, is breathtaking like this.

“When I was at my leisure, before we came here, I would pray. Athos would train; he would practice. He would spend hours, I’m sure, swinging and gripping, and every rough inch of that would be on you. Would you gentle his grip? Would you want to? Or would the sting make the pleasure even better?"

The sound Porthos makes is a high, needy whine and Athos has to brace himself on the wall, clutching at the plaster to keep from marching in there and taking Porthos in hand. Why not, though? From all the evidence in front of Athos now, it seems Porthos would have no objection. He remembers their talk in the stable, weeks ago now, and can still remember that anxious dread when Porthos mentioned d’Artagnan’s attraction. He remembers the desperate relief as well, the feeling that here, in the middle of a foreign city, in the home of an enemy soldier, Athos had found a place he didn’t have to hide.

That’s not right, is it? Porthos isn’t the enemy anymore, at least not while they are here in Damascus. He’s become someone that Athos loves to make laugh, a fellow sufferer of Aramis’ wild imagination and an intellectual sparring partner unlike any Athos has ever known. When they leave, when this is all over, Athos knows he will carry Porthos’ absence like a hole in his heart, the same way he carries the absence of his brother. Porthos is Athos’ friend, unlikely as that might have seemed months ago, and from the way he and Aramis are speaking right now, he might be much more, if Athos is brave enough to try.

Still, how can he know for sure? He can't. This could just be talk between Porthos and Aramis, a titillating banter meant to add a completely unnecessary frisson of excitement to an already dangerous situation. If that’s the case, and Athos puts himself out there only to be rebuffed in favor of the person Porthos truly desires, Athos knows how he would react. He’d pull back in on himself, he’d put all of his walls back up and become the man he was when he first rode onto the field at Cresson Springs, and not even Aramis’ considerable will could stop him.

The idea of that, the possibility of that bleak future, is what keeps Athos on this side of the door, cock in hand and sweat dripping down his back. He’d tried to push his erection down, but now he’s just grinding against his palm, teeth sunk into his lip and praying he doesn’t make any noise. He may not be able to join them, but Athos doesn’t want to miss a second.

“Do you think he would talk to you like I am? Or would he stare at you, silently, as he does across the chessboard?” Aramis’ mouth curls as he talks and Athos wants to lick the smirk right off his face.

His grip on himself is vicious, holding back his lust like he’s trying to keep the tide out, and he thinks he can taste blood from where he’s biting his lip, but he doesn't look away. Athos’ eyes are wide open as Aramis bends his head. He says something only he and Porthos can hear, and Porthos’s whole body jerks as he comes. Athos can see Porthos’ thighs bunching, can see his back tense as he spills onto Aramis’ fist. It runs down the crease in Aramis’ wrist and drips onto the sheets, but neither of them stops, not until Porthos grips Aramis’ forearm in both of his hands and hisses. Porthos is stunning in the dim light of the room, his skin luminous and warm, Athos envies every place Aramis is touching him.

Aramis holds Porthos’ cock through the aftershocks, just keeping the pressure on as he reaches for a wet cloth with his other hand. He wipes them both clean and tucks Porthos back into his braies. “Tomorrow morning I have to sit and have our morning meal with Athos. I’ll have to look him in the eye, remembering everything we’ve said tonight, and keep a straight face, and for that, I’ll need my sleep.” He winks and pulls the sheet up to Porthos’ chest, stroking him as he smooths the fabric over Porthos’ skin. “So I think I’ll take my leave now. Good night, Porthos."

Watching the tableau through the window, Athos almost feels like he’s at a play, which may be why he’s still standing here, even as he hears Aramis making plans to walk out onto the balcony where Athos is currently hiding. When Aramis straightens and unrolls his sleeves, Athos comes back to himself enough to jerk his hand from his trousers and step, as quickly as he can, back across the corner of the balcony and into his own room. With his back against the door, Athos can hear Aramis come out of Porthos’ room, saying goodnight again. He can hear Porthos’ quieter reply, and then Aramis closes the door. He crosses in front of Athos’ room, stopping for just a second outside the door and Athos wonders if Aramis is feeling just that bold. Will he knock? Will he invite himself in and take Athos in hand the same way? Will he talk to Athos about how Porthos might touch him?

He’s sure Aramis can hear his heart through the wood of the door. When Aramis’ footsteps continue on to his own room, Athos tells himself he’s relieved.

He strips out of his trousers and shirt, draping them over the back of the chair, and climbs into bed. Not for a minute does Athos pretend he isn’t going to finish what he started in on the balcony. Pushing his braies down, he pulls one leg free and lets his knees fall open. The fingers of one hand are sweat-salty against his tongue as he gets them wet, the other hand he has wrapped around his cock, stiff again and weeping until it drips. When his fingers are good and slick from his mouth, Athos strokes the skin behind his balls, pushing and feeling the skin drag under his fingers. He can feel the calluses that Aramis was talking about, and it reminds him of how Aramis and Porthos looked together in the dim lamplight.

Grimacing from a mix of pain and pleasure, Athos rubs his slick fingers over his hole and pushes at his entrance with just one. It’s been so long since he did this but his body remembers what his mind has forgotten. He bears down, and the temptation is there to slide his finger in, but Athos resists. He puts pressure on the entire opening instead, feeling that perfect push, thick like— well, like something that’s _not_  a single finger— and he pants, biting back moans. Spitting on his fingers to wet them again, Athos gives in to the urge, he strokes himself with his right hand and slides the longest finger of his left hand inside himself, curling it as best he can and wishing Aramis were talking him through this, that Porthos were watching. Porthos with that lush mouth curled in a smirk, his eyes dancing, just watching it play out. Athos imagines performing like this for Porthos, earning that smile. The brief mental picture of that, Aramis bent over the bed and Porthos lounging in the chair by the door, one broad hand palming his groin, is all Athos needs. He grunts and fucks his fist twice more and everything goes white as he comes.

  


The light sneaking through the shutters wakes Athos, hitting his eyelid like an arrow. His braies are pulled up; he must have taken a moment to clean himself, but he can’t remember it. True, he’s glad not to be lying here in his own mess, but there’s a pang of loss at being so far from that moment. At least his neck doesn’t hurt anymore.

Aramis and Porthos are already bickering when Athos gets to the _iwan_  and with everything that’s happened behind closed doors in the last twelve hours, Athos is pleased to see that in the open, nothing has changed.

Spooning honey onto his yogurt, Aramis looks up at Porthos and cocks one eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you telling me this recovery could take as long as it wanted. You said you would not push.” He points at Porthos with his spoon. “I _distinctly_  remember this. Athos was there, too.” He turns to look up at Athos. “You heard him say it; I know you did.”

Athos pulls over a low stool and reaches for a piece of lamb. “Don’t involve me in this.”

Aramis grunts in disgust and throws his hands up.

Porthos is laughing at them both, making his dimples deepen and Athos feels his heart stutter at the sight of them. “You want me to take sedate walks around the courtyard, nap all day and let Hamid carry me up every step?"

There’s something behind his eyes, and when Athos looks closer, he can see how much Porthos fears being a burden, being incapable. His life is riding and fighting and shooting, it’s what he’s trained to do since he could walk or hold a bow, and the idea of an uncertain future in which soldiering isn’t an option terrifies him. It terrifies him enough to push himself. He needs to know if he’ll be able to ride again, and he’s dragging that answer toward him with everything he has. Athos wants to slide his hand over Porthos’, wants to reassure him, but instead he drops his knees open until his leg is touching Porthos’ under the table. It could be innocent; it could easily be brushed away as nothing more than an accident if Porthos wants it that way.

Aramis finishes chewing his almond-paste roll. “That would be the best way, but it’s hardly realistic with patients as stubborn as you."

Porthos presses back against Athos’ leg, just reassuring himself with touch, Athos supposes, and grins. “There are patients as stubborn as me?” Porthos asks.

Aramis’ smile is indulgent, and there’s another eye roll. “I can stand here telling you to take it easy, I could repeat it until I run out of air, and you will still be running around the stables tomorrow, or trying to get rid of the crutch long before it’s wise.” He leans forward and waits until Porthos meets his eyes. “If you push too hard you will set everything back and take longer to heal than if you’d done as I asked.” Aramis voice drops an octave. “Be careful with yourself.” He stops and looks up. “Athos, I’m relying on you to keep him from being completely reckless."

“I’m hardly a nanny."

“Needs must,” Aramis says, shrugging one shoulder and winking at Athos.

Athos smiles and thinks about how he worried this day would be awkward, but instead it’s just them as they always are. On the heels of that comes the memory of Porthos’ beautiful skin dark against the sheets and Aramis’ paler hand around Porthos’ cock. Coughing around his water, Athos covers his mouth and hopes the choking is a suitable excuse for how red his face must be.

Standing, Aramis grabs one last triangle of bread. “I’ll be late if I don’t leave now,” he says, popping it into his mouth and gathering his books from the table. “I’ll see you both later,” he says around the bread clenched between his teeth. Before Athos can glare at him for talking with his mouth full, Aramis is gone in a swirl of robes.

  


An unexpected rainstorm rolls through the city, so they don’t go to the stable that day. Instead, they sit, and Athos reads to Porthos. They’ve been portioning out Athos’ book as slowly as they can, but even so, they’ve been through it twice now. This third time, Athos is practicing translating it. Porthos suggests other words, he teaches Athos the meanings and draws out the shapes.

“I knew you were paying attention during Aramis’ lessons, but I’m always surprised at how much.”

Athos lets it warm him, Porthos’ smile and the simple praise. There’s a thoughtful little hum from Porthos, but Athos doesn’t push. If Porthos wants to talk about what’s on his mind, he will. Athos goes back to his book, testing words for the next sentence and trying to remember what they’d look like on a page.

When he’d first come here from France, Athos had feared he would be teased about his book. For having one at all by those who could not read and for the subject matter by those who could. What is a warrior doing reading a love story? Here in the house, though, here where it is only Aramis and their host, the book has become precious to all of them.

Porthos clears his throat and Athos wonders how long he’s been sitting here, daydreaming and tapping his finger against the page. “Maybe a little break,” Porthos says and calls to Yusuf, asking for something to drink.

Athos smiles at him, closing the book. He tucks his finger in to save the page and lets his head fall back, listening to the rain hit the stones in the courtyard and smelling the damp dirt around the plants. Porthos says something and Athos recognizes a few words, but it’s still a little fast for him. "What does that mean?" he asks.

"No Sultan’s pleasure could with ours compare,” Porthos says, in French. "It is from one of my poets, but it does not translate as well as I would like." He ducks his head and then looks back up at Athos, not shy, just hesitant. Unsure. “You could probably read it, with how well you’re doing."

"I would like that," Athos says. “Very much.” And he tries not to think about how much he would enjoy having a new book to read to Porthos.

  


That night, when Athos returns to his rooms after the evening meal, there is another book laid beside his own. Inside the cover, someone has tucked a piece of paper, and the words written on it are in French.

Each morn I vow, “Tonight I shall repent --

Of wine and brimful cup I shall repent,”

But Spring now here, how can I keep my vow?

O Lord! of my repentance I repent.

Athos thinks of Porthos, of the irreverence that often sparks behind his sensible words, and can not help but smile. He traces his fingers over the spine and looks forward to tomorrow afternoon’s time in the garden.

  


The next morning, woken by the muezzin calling Porthos and the other faithful to their prayers, Athos sits and watches the garden grow brighter until there is enough light to read. He adds water to the sekanjabin syrup and enjoys the simple pleasure of a cool drink and a good book read in the morning light.

When Athos makes his way to the stairs, he sees Porthos standing next to the fountain, talking to a man Athos has never seen before. He stops on the balcony, giving them a chance to finish their conversation. It’s an opportunity to watch Porthos unseen, to take in the breadth of his shoulders and places where his shirt is tight over his muscles. His kind eyes are serious and Athos marvels at how he can be as beautiful like this as he is when he’s laughing. When the man leaves, Athos goes down to join Porthos.

“What’s happened?”

Porthos shifts his weight on his crutch. “Sit down with me; we’ll wait for Aramis to come down and I’ll tell you both together.” He puts his hand on Athos’ shoulder, and Athos feels the warmth through his clothes. It feels so good. With Porthos braced on him, Athos gets them over to the _iwan_  and settled.

“Your faces. What’s happened?” Aramis says as he comes down the stairs.

“Porthos has had news."

“It’s good news,” Porthos says. Aramis drops onto the couch and pours himself some tea, waving for Porthos to continue. “The man who was just here came from the citadel. They’ve gotten word about some of the Sultan’s recent activity.” Aramis’ hand stops, holding the teapot just above the tray, unmoving, as he stares at Porthos.

Porthos finds a loose thread in the table cloth and plucks at it. “Jerusalem has surrendered."

Athos wondered when it would come. Now that the moment is here, he thinks he ought to care. He ought to be on fire with righteous anger, the heathens in the city of David, but instead it feels so very far away.

“The Sultan was as kind as he could be. Christians still worship in the churches; pilgrims are still visiting. Those who wanted to were allowed to leave as long as they paid a small fee. Some weren’t able to. The Sultan let many of them go anyway.” The thread he’s been worrying at comes free and Porthos twists hit between his fingers. “Apparently the Sultan’s brother saw some who couldn’t pay the fee, they were going to be ransomed as slaves, but he asked for a thousand of them as a reward for how well he fought."

Aramis finally sets the teapot down, still watching Porthos.

“He let them go,” Porthos says. “Immediately. He saw they wouldn’t be able to leave on their own, so he asked for them just to free them. Apparently, some of the other generals did the same."

“Did the Sultan allow them to be freed?” Aramis asks.

“He did. He praised his brother’s generosity. Our leader himself has now said that it’s fine to free the men given to his soldiers after a battle."

The ball finally drops into place for Athos. “You won’t have to hide what you do anymore,” he says. Porthos smiles at him, small and quiet, but absolutely a smile. That’s not the problem, though, not really. The problem is that now Aramis has no leverage. It was only ever an empty threat that Aramis might expose Porthos’ generosity, never enough to get Porthos to do anything he didn’t already want to, but it was his excuse. “You can tell us to leave now,” Athos says, and he can see Aramis wince. It’s what they were all thinking, Athos only said it aloud.

“I could,” Porthos says. “Or I could say that now you really are my guests. No ploys, no pretending. You are guests in my home because I enjoy your company, and you are free to leave anytime you want. I don’t own you, and I don’t have to let anyone else think I do."

He’s better now, nearly walking. They _could_  leave. Athos tries to read Aramis’ thoughts in his face and imagines he can see the second Aramis makes up his mind.

“What kind of physician would I be if I stopped treating you before you were healed?”

Porthos isn’t going to let Aramis get away with any more excuses. “You'd stay because I'm your patient?"

“You are _also_  my patient,” Aramis says. “At first you were only my patient. Now, I hope, we are friends, too.” He holds his hand out to Porthos and Athos watches as Porthos slides his palm along Aramis’.

“Of course. Of course we’re friends.”

Athos imagines those two sets of fingers laced together around Porthos’ cock and has to bite down on his own tongue to keep from moaning. It’s the wrong time, the wrong place, to be having these thoughts, but his imagination seems to be without shame.

“Regardless of you being my physician… do you _want_  to leave?” Porthos asks.

Athos meets Aramis’ anxious look and hopes that Aramis can see in his face how this place is knitting Athos back together. It’s what any good healer would hope for.

“No,” Aramis says, his eyes still locked with Athos’. “We don’t."

“That’s settled then,” Porthos says, letting go of Aramis’ hand. “We’ll talk about this again when I am back to walking and riding. But right now, we’ll all stay right where we are."

“In general,” Aramis says, grinning. “At some point, I’ll need to go to the hospital."

“But at the end of the day we’ll all be here at home again,” Porthos says.

Athos sips his tea. “Yes, home again."

“Home again,” Aramis agrees.

  


The walk to the stables is quiet, but not tense. Porthos is getting his strength back enough for them to walk the whole way. It’s doable as long as Porthos takes it slow and uses his crutch. Athos is happy to take all the time Porthos needs. Every few minutes Athos will ask about a building or a sign and Porthos will tell him, but otherwise, they seem to be comfortable in silence. Today they are under no pretenses, they’re just two friends on a walk.

Porthos is able to brace himself against Hayam now, to brush her himself, as long as Athos is nearby when he needs to move. Together they groom the horse while d’Artagnan sees to Noor in the next stall. The conversation is lively, d’Artagnan has been having a dispute with one of his suppliers and is so funny in his frustration that Athos and Porthos both goad him in his rants. When he’s called away, they’re left in the stable alone, the grooms all out with other horses.

“With that much fire, I pity any businessman who tries to cross him,” Porthos says.

Athos agrees with a nod and a quiet huff of breath that’s not quite a laugh. “It’s all for his horses, though. I admire that."

With his hand still on Athos’ shoulder for support, Porthos turns to him and grins, trying to look sincere. “If you’ve changed your mind about our previous conversation, I’m sure d’Artagnan would still appreciate your, uh,” Porthos hums for a second. “Your extended presence.” His eyes are laughing.

Athos is a soldier, a tactician. He’s been raised to understand the difference between good and bad strategy, how to survey a field of combat and make the wisest move. When he arrived at his first battle, he found that all of that training and education had given him not only a sense of how to move but also of _when_  to move. Athos has spent his life learning how to spot a moment when everything can change. He knows he’s in one now.

He thinks about Porthos fearing they might leave. In his mind, he can hear Porthos talking about how Athos hands might feel on him. Every day in Damascus has moved Athos further along this path to becoming a man who can be at this moment and be brave in a way he never has been before.

There’s a click in his throat as he swallows and Athos fears it’s so loud it will echo in the stable.

“And if my affections rest elsewhere?"

He can feel Porthos’ hand tighten on his shoulder. “I would wish you both every happiness,” Porthos says, stiff and formal.

“It’s too early for that, I think. I’m not even sure if they’re returned."

Porthos’ smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only a fool wouldn’t return them."

"You may not have noticed,” Athos says and tries to smile, “but there are a great many fools in this world.” He strokes one hand down Hayam’s neck. “Though, perhaps not everyone.” He looks up at Porthos again, steps to the edge of the cliff, and jumps.

“Are you a fool, Porthos?"

Porthos’ eyes are enormous, his face a deeper color over his cheeks. “No,” he says. “I’m not."

“I hoped you weren’t.”

Everything they aren’t saying fills the space between them, and Athos feels as though he’s pushing against it when he leans closer to Porthos. It would be so easy, just a few inches, and he could taste that part of Porthos’ lower lip still bruised from his own teeth digging into it the night before.

Porthos leans in as well, like he can’t help himself. At the last second, when Athos can feel Porthos’ hot breath on his face, Porthos’ hand slides down off his shoulder and pushes back gently against Athos’ chest. For half a second, Athos wonders if he was entirely wrong, even in the face of this moment between them, but Porthos puts his fears to rest.

“Not here,” he says.

“You’re right,” Athos says, standing straight again.

“Later,” Porthos says.

“Yes. Later."

Porthos strokes Athos’ chest, patting his shoulder. Athos traces Porthos’ face with his eyes, the curve of his lip and his warm eyes, His eyes are hot on Athos’ skin, and it’s almost a relief when d’Artagnan comes back into the stable, swearing about shifty salesmen. Porthos stretches his hand across Athos’ shoulder, stroking at the side of Athos’ neck with his thumb. Athos shudders. He doesn’t look away from Porthos’ face when he calls to d’Artagnan, “And what did you say then?”

Athos saddles Hayam and takes her out for a run. All of his training and experience had been on short-backed European stallions, but over these past weeks, he’s gotten more and more comfortable on these spirited mares. Hayam loves to run and today Athos lets her have her head. After the first run around the polo field, Porthos pulls up to a stop at the fence where Porthos is leaning.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?”

Porthos only points, and Athos turns to follow his finger and sees d’Artagnan bring Noor around the corner of the stable at a run.

Athos thought he’d spend the afternoon watching Porthos and waiting for even five minutes alone together. Instead, thanks to d’Artagnan, he spends the next two hours racing from one end of the polo field to the other, with Porthos whooping and cheering from the fence.

They send one of d’Artagnan’s grooms back to the house for the cart, and together they head home. Athos walks alongside, his hand on the edge of the cart, and from time to time he can feel Porthos’ fingers brush his own and can’t help but smile.

Aramis is waiting for them when they get home. He clucks at Porthos for over-doing it, and he glares at Athos as though this were all his fault.  


Settled in the courtyard, with a tray of drinks and food beside them, Athos listens to them read. He pictures the shapes of letters in his head as Aramis describes them, translating the words and being pleased with himself when he’s right. At some point the sound of the fountain, his full belly, and the morning’s exercise all catch up with him and Athos falls asleep. He dreams of France, of his brother’s laughter and their house full of people. He dreams he’s walking through the rooms and he sees his mother in the kitchens, unlocking the spice cupboard and discussing meal plans with the cook. His brother is in the Great Hall, his laughter bouncing off the roof beams, and Athos aches to touch him. Aramis is sitting next to Thomas, reading to him from a book and when he sees Athos he smiles and raises a hand in greeting. The Hall was always cold in real life, but in his dream, Athos is warm to his core. He passes childhood friends long dead and finds himself in the stable, where Porthos is saddling Athos’ father’s enormous charger.

The horse had been too big for anything practical, too tall to ride in armor and too headstrong and difficult to handle for anything else, but Athos’ father had loved him. In this dream, Porthos is talking to the horse, quiet and calm, and the horse is rubbing his nose on Porthos’ tunic. Porthos turns and smiles at him. “Athos,” he says and before Athos can answer he hears his name again, this time from Aramis, and it comes with a tap on his shoulder.

When he opens his eyes, the afternoon light of Damascus pours in, and the dream is gone. Aramis and Porthos are still there, though.

“I’ve been living next door to you for months now, and I’ve never heard you snore like that,” Aramis says. Porthos nods, his face solemn but his eyes sparkling.

They’ll all go back to war in a few months, and Athos lets himself ache for a moment, knowing what his days will be like without them.

  


That night, in Porthos’ rooms, Aramis brings in a huge copper soup pot.

“Did you not get enough to eat?” Porthos asks and Aramis rolls his eyes. He pulls the lid off and takes out two towels.

“I learned about this today, and I think it might help,” Aramis says. He has Porthos lay back, his trousers off and his injured leg exposed. One towel gets draped over the leg just below the scar and a second one wrapped around the leg just above it. Porthos drops his head back onto the pillow and lets out a deep groan.

“That feels amazing,” he says.

“As good as the massages?” Aramis asks and Athos can hear just a hint of something behind his tone.

“No, never that,” Porthos says, and he won’t meet Aramis’ eyes. Athos wants to tell them that he knows, that he’s seen them, but before he can say anything, Aramis tugs him closer.

“When these cool, there are more towels in the pot. Keep putting new ones on until you run out. It will give you something to do while you wait for Porthos to make his next chess move.”

“Where will you be?” Athos asks.

“It was a busier day than normal, and I’ve been both vomited and pissed on by patients today. I washed it off at the hospital, but when I was in the kitchens, Yusuf promised to bring the tub to my room and fill it. A bath is the only thing that could take me from your company, I promise.”

“Go on,” Porthos says. “And leave your clothes next to the tub when you’re finished, Yusuf will have one of the kitchen girls wash them.”

“Good night, my dears,” Aramis says and Athos wonders if he knows how fond he sounds.

Athos waits until Aramis’ door has clicked closed before he closes Porthos’ door. They’re alone in the room now. It’s just them and everything they said the stables, every minute of waiting since.

“Are the towels starting to cool?”

“No,” Porthos says. “I don’t think so."

“Should I check?”

Porthos nods.

Athos sits next to him on the bed and feels Porthos’ warmth seeping through his clothes. He puts his hand on the towel sitting just above Porthos’ knee. It’s still warm, but there’s gooseflesh on Porthos’ leg. “This one is fine,” Athos says. He runs his hand up Porthos’ thigh to the other towel and watches Porthos, beautiful Porthos, gasp and jerk under his touch. It’s not the first time their skin has met, but this is different, and they both know it.

“This one is still warm as well,” Athos says and squeezes gently. Porthos licks his lips, and Athos feels his throat go dry.

“Later. We said later,” Porthos says. Athos knows what he means, knows that they could be kissing right this second, but the way Porthos’ leg is straining against his grip and the pleading look in Porthos’ eyes is too good for Athos to rush the moment.

Letting go of Porthos’ leg, Athos skims his hand up until it’s under Porthos’ shirt. He lays his palm flat against Porthos’ belly and feels him breathing, fast and shallow. “I wanted to kiss you,” he says. “In the stables."

“I wanted that, too."

Athos curls his fingers, scratching at the hair below Porthos’ navel. “It’s been years since I’ve kissed anyone."

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?” Porthos asks, then groans as Athos digs his fingernails in.

Bracing himself on the bed, Athos bends until his face is just above Porthos’. He runs his fingers over Porthos’ jaw and drags a thumb over his lower lip, just at the spot he’d thought about licking — was it only hours ago? Porthos makes a noise that can only be a growl and wraps one hand around Athos’ neck, dragging him down until their mouths meet.

The first touch of Porthos’ tongue against Athos’ mouth is like a shock and a caress and Athos moans, sinking into it. He kisses Porthos with every big of longing he’s been keeping bottled up, with every second he’s spent watching Porthos’ mouth while he talks or Aramis’ hands moving over words while they read. It's been piling up inside him, and Athos lets it all go.

One of his hands is clenched in the fabric of Porthos’ shirt, and he can feel Porthos’ quick breaths against his face. He swipes his tongue over that spot, that swollen bit in the middle of Porthos’ lower lip, it’s just as good as he’d hoped, before he licks into the Porthos’ mouth.

He’s hard now, just for the kissing, and his cock is painful where it’s bent against his body. Athos doesn’t break the kiss as he kneels on the bed, straddling Porthos’ good leg. Porthos’ hands are on his back now, solid and warm. He’s stroking Athos’ skin, clutching and pulling at him. Athos can’t resist, dropping until he’s almost laying on Porthos, and now he can feel that Porthos is hard, too. The memory of Porthos’ cock wrapped in Aramis’ fingers leaps into Athos’ head, and he grunts, bucking his hips.

There’s a hiss and Porthos breaks the kiss, rocking up into Athos. His braies are wet where his cock has leaked against them even in this short time and Athos wants to feel that. With one hand he cups Porthos’ through the linen, feeling the heat and hardness, the heft of Porthos’ balls against his fingers. Porthos is pushing against him, desperate for friction and pressure and Athos obliges. He leans back in, kissing Porthos again, feeling the stroke and drag of their tongues together and the pull of Porthos sucking at his lower lip.

It’s quiet in the room, only the occasional sigh or near-silent moan as they kiss and kiss. It reminds Athos of how much he’s loved this in the past. Such a simple thing, the touch of lips together, but it undoes him. Porthos’ hand is in Athos’ hair, twisting in the strands and trying to pull Athos closer and again, _closer_. Pulling free and looking down, Athos can see where Porthos’ braies are nearly transparent they’re so wet over his cock. He wants to lick that spot, to suck at it until the taste of Porthos is all through his mouth. This man is so beautiful, the tension in his neck and the lines of his body. He’s perfect.

Porthos is reaching for him, trying to give Athos his hand to grind against, but Athos has other ideas. He kneels up, never looking away from Porthos’ face, and unties the knot holding his trousers up. Pushing them down, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his braies, Athos bares himself below the waist. Porthos is staring at him as he traces his fingers gently up the underside of Athos’ cock and runs his finger around the head. Athos sighs at the touch, curling his hips into it once, twice, wanting to hold Porthos’ hand to him and fuck it.

Instead, he takes Porthos’ hand, draping it around his hip before reaching down and tugging at Porthos’ braies. There’s a gasp as Porthos feels the first touch of evening air against his heated skin. Athos stretches out over him and bends for another kiss, bringing their bodies together. The feel of another cock against his own is scorching. Porthos grunts and jerks up into him again and Athos answers in kind.

Athos pulls back until he can see Porthos’ eyes, enormous in the dim light of the single lamp, and stares at him as they fuck into the cradle of each other’s hips, dragging their cocks together. “Good?” Athos asks and Porthos nods before surging up and kissing him again. The only thing that keeps Athos from losing himself in the moment is how hard he is trying to not hurt Porthos’ leg.

He’s careful, so careful, keeping his movements lighter than he wants to and trying to make up for it with the depth of his kisses. Porthos is having none of it. He grips Athos’ ass in his hands and pulls him close, fucking against him and groaning into Athos’ mouth. Athos is lost. Everything after that is a blur of motion and damp, hot breath, the feel of Porthos’ fingers pressing into his flesh and the sweet easing of friction when the dry skin they’re rocking into grows wet and slick.

Soon, too soon, Athos feels Porthos break the kiss and bury his face in Athos’ neck as his grinding fuck into Athos’ hips gets faster, needier. He bites Athos shoulder as he comes. Athos can feel it spill against his skin, against his own cock and he uses the rush of heat and wetness to chase his own end.

Porthos doesn’t let go, even after Athos comes. He holds Athos tight to him, and Athos tries to burn into his brain the feel of Porthos’ warmth against him and the soft press of Porthos’ lips to his neck. When Porthos’ cock finally stops twitching, and his grip loosens, Athos reaches into the copper pot and pulls out one of the warm towels, wiping them both clean.

His first instinct is to get off the bed, to tidy himself up and go to his own room, but he’s trying not to be that man, not tonight. Instead, Athos rolls off to the side, stretching himself out alongside Porthos on the mattress. He pulls Porthos’ braies up, then pulls the sheet up as well, trying to keep Porthos warm in the cool evening air now that he’s not blanketing Porthos with his own heat.

‘Thank you,’ he wants to say, and ‘Passion makes you even more beautiful.’ He doesn’t. He calls on the man he’s trying so hard to be, and he puts his hand over Porthos’ heart, keeping the moment close even though the rush is gone. Keeping them together. Porthos takes Athos’ hand in his and brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles before he lets it rest against his chest again.

“I didn’t expect… I hoped, but I didn’t expect,” Porthos says.

“I didn’t even know to hope."

Porthos rolls his head until he’s looking at Athos, running his thumb over Athos’ fingers. “What changed?"

Athos looks away, unable to look Porthos in the eye for this. He spreads his hand on Porthos’ chest and feels Porthos lace their fingers together. Athos squeezes and Porthos answers in kind.

“Last night,” Athos says.

Porthos goes tense under his hand and then relaxes, inch by inch. “When last night?"

Athos looks back at Porthos and meets his eyes again. “Last night,” he says again, and Porthos swallows.

“Me and Aramis.” It isn’t a question.

Every move Athos has made so far has been met with not only acceptance but joy and passion, which is what lets him say what he does next. “You were beautiful. Both of you.”

“Could you hear?"

Athos nods.

“I feel like I ought to apologize for us talking about you."

Athos lifts one eyebrow. “Truly?"

“No,” Porthos says and smiles.

Athos gives in to an urge he’s had for months and kisses Porthos’ left dimple. Catching his mouth, Porthos draws Athos in. It’s different from before, with all the desperation gone this is a kiss full of warmth and absent of fear. Athos wants kisses like this every day. Athos’ throat tightens around the knowledge that they have only weeks left. Months at best.

No.

Not tonight. If their days are numbered, Athos isn’t going to waste a single one. He studies Porthos’ profile against the lamplight and sees when Porthos’ forehead furrows.

“What?"

Porthos chews at the inside of his lip. “We have to tell him."

“We do."

Athos wonders if Porthos is trying as hard as he is to imagine how that conversation will go. Porthos yawns extravagantly and Athos watches his neck stretch. He can’t resist kissing it.

“We could just leave the window open?”

It startles a laugh out of Athos and Porthos’ eyes widen. “I’ve never heard you laugh,” he says. “Athos, you laughed."

“I’ll try to keep myself under control from now on."

Porthos’ “Don’t you dare,” is half swallowed by another yawn.

“You need to sleep.” Athos kisses Porthos under his jaw and climbs off the bed, holding his trousers up with one hand.

“What about Aramis?” Porthos asks, his eyes growing heavy.

“We’ll talk to him tomorrow. Morning meal or during his lesson.” He pulls the blanket over Porthos’ chest. “Or tomorrow night.”

As he leans over to blow out the lamp and Porthos holds his arm, pulling him down for one last kiss. Athos tries to pour everything into it, how much he wishes he could stay, could feel Porthos warm against him all night. He’s a soldier, he’s slept next to other bodies more times than he can count, even shared beds, but to be able to hold Porthos, to kiss the scar on his shoulder, that would be altogether different. _Soon_ , he tries to say with this kiss, _soon_.

Porthos’ other hand is cupping his neck and Athos soaks up the warmth and the touch, holds the feeling of it close so he can remember it when he’s in his own bed.

“Good night, Athos.” Porthos’ tongue sweeps over Athos’ lower lip. He yawns again, and Athos gives him one last soft kiss in the center of his forehead.

“Go to sleep, I don’t want to anger your physician before we have a chance to talk to him.” Porthos’ answering laugh is a rumble in the dark room as Athos steps out onto the balcony and closes the door with a soft click.

  


He’s the first one to the _iwan_  the next morning, Yusuf has just brought out food and tea, and he takes a second to let Athos practice a few phrases with him. When Yusuf smiles at him, Athos feels proud of himself, he feels affection for this boy, he doesn’t feel like he’s talking to an enemy. Going back to war when this is all over, going back to putting a sword into the bodies of young men like Yusuf, it seems like an impossibility right now.

Aramis comes down the stairs, whistling, and Athos rolls his eyes just on principle. “Good morning,” he says.

Dropping onto the overstuffed cushion opposite him, Aramis smiles and plucks a date from a bowl. “It does seem to be, yes.” He bites into the fruit and reaches for the pot of tea.

Porthos’ crutch makes a clack clack clack on the stones of the courtyard. He braces himself on Hamid’s shoulder as he lowers himself onto the sofa then sends him to the kitchen for more tea. “What did I miss?"

“I was about to tell Athos what a fine idea it was to have a bath last night. How was the rest of your evening? Did the hot towel wraps work for Porthos?"

Memories of the night before slam into Athos one after another, Porthos under him, arching and straining, the feel of his skin beneath Athos’ hands. He can’t talk, he can barely breathe. When Aramis turns back to look at him, Athos knows it must show on his face because Aramis stops dead. He’s holding his cup halfway to his mouth, and not a muscle on him is moving.

“Oh. Well, that’s. I’d been hoping that might happen.” His cheery tone rings false to Athos as Aramis grabs four pieces of bread from the basket on the table. “I think I’ll lead to the hospital early today, I’ve wanted to talk to one of the surgeons and he’s always so busy later in the day.” He goes to stand, but Athos reaches across the table and grabs Aramis’ wrist.

“Aramis. It’s not like that.” He looks at Porthos and sees that same worried, hopeful smile that had been there the night before. “Five minutes, Aramis. That’s all we ask."

Slowly, Aramis lowers himself until he’s sitting on the edge of his cushion, looking for all the world like he’s poised to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, two things. 1) Saladin's brother totally did that after the siege of Jerusalem in 1187. Not pictured in this chapter: Saladin totally letting a weeping woman go without paying the ransom. Also note pictured in this chapter: All the Crusaders who packed up the gold shiny stuff from the churches and headed out of town and DID NOT offer to pay the ransom for any of the poor who were unable to leave the city. Super great guys. Super great. 2) Anyone who says fic writers do not suffer for their art didn't have to spend an hour in my kitchen listening to my husband talk about the differences between medieval European and Arabian horses just so I could get that one line in there. I kept trying to leave, y'all and he kept talking about stirrups. You're like, "But Melly, you like that nerd stuff. Plus, the evolution of the stirrup is fascinating." Yeah. For fifteen minutes, twenty tops. After forty-five you start checking around the room for things you could fashion into a blunt instrument.


	9. i forget about the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Athos. I really had been hoping for this. There’s no call for kid gloves. I don’t need an explanation and I don’t need...” He waves his hands a bit. “Details.”
> 
> Athos smirks. He smirks. Aramis looks to Porthos.
> 
> "He was outside the window, Aramis,” Porthos’ voice is low. “Night before last." He gestures with his hand and Aramis can see Yusuf, on the other side of the courtyard, turn on his heel and head straight back to the kitchens.
> 
> “Ah,” Aramis says. Clearly it’s no good trying to pretend like he isn’t interested in the details.

_My lover asks me:_  
_"What is the difference between me and the sky?"_  
_The difference, my love,_  
_Is that when you laugh,_  
_I forget about the sky._

-Nizar Qabbani

~

 

Thoughts are piling on themselves so fast that Aramis can’t keep them straight. He wants to hug them both. He wants to hear every detail. He wants to run before they tell him anything because he won’t be able to keep his cock down, won’t be able to hide it. He’s sorry he didn’t get a chance to kiss them. He’s imagining. Everything.

"This isn't the time, or the place, but there is a lot to say. Come and sit with us over chess tonight, like you always do.”

“Athos. I really had been hoping for this. There’s no call for kid gloves. I don’t need an explanation and I don’t need...” He waves his hands a bit. “Details.”

Athos smirks. He _smirks_. Aramis looks to Porthos.

"He was outside the window, Aramis,” Porthos’ voice is low. “Night before last." He gestures with his hand and Aramis can see Yusuf, on the other side of the courtyard, turn on his heel and head straight back to the kitchens.

“Ah,” Aramis says. Clearly it’s no good trying to pretend like he isn’t interested in the details. He tries to remember everything he said two nights ago, every comment he made about Athos’ hands or his eyes. “Fun. Between friends. No harm meant.” Somehow every word of that is both true and a lie, and he’s afraid the lie is what shows on his face.

Porthos takes a step forward, his crutch clacking against the tile. “That’s not right,” he says. “Just fun? You’re not a means to an end for me, Aramis.” Aramis opens his mouth to speak, but Porthos rolls right over him. “Were you just pitying the invalid?”

“Of course I wasn’t!”

There’s a soft click as Porthos swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing once.  “You,” Porthos turns to look at Athos, the rest of his words stuck in his throat. Athos is looking back at him with an expression too soft for this setting or this conversation. He’s looking at Porthos like having Porthos address him is warming him to his core. Aramis knows how he feels.

Porthos takes a breath and starts again. “You looked at me across that stall and you tried something that could have gotten you killed. You knew being together was something I’d thought about, but you couldn’t know how I’d react to _you_  bringing it up.” He flexes his hand around the crutch and stares, determined, into Athos’ eyes. “But you still took a chance.”

He turns to look at Aramis and there is a physical weight to his stare, Aramis can feel it. There won’t be any lying, not to that face. “He took that chance because you,” he huffs, almost a laugh, and shakes his head a little, like he still can’t quite believe it. “You took the tiny bits of a conversation between two other people and thought that was enough to take your own chance. Weeks of saying it was for my health, but I want to believe you put your hands on _me_  that night, not just your patient or a brother soldier.”

‘I have only ever put my hands on _you_ ’ is all Aramis can think. He’s not sure he can say it, but Porthos can clearly read it in his expression.

Taking a deep breath, Porthos shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "I’ve ridden into certain death but I—“ Aramis can see his knuckles are pale as his hand grips the crutch. "I took your touch, because that’s all I could have, Aramis. If that’s still it— I’m asking if there is a chance for that and more. Is there a chance you’ll join us?”

The images slamming into Aramis’ brain shift drastically and now he’s in the fantasies with them.

“Come sit with us over chess, Aramis. Then stay.”

Yes. Yes. He wants that so much. He wants every inch of them he can get. But the questions rise to the top, and he’s frowning before he can stop himself.

“Is it your vows?” Athos asks.

“What? No. No, it’s not that.” It isn’t, even though it should be. He really is a terrible monk. “You say ‘more,’ and if you mean a tumble in bed, I know about that, even among more than two people. In my misspent youth I was I was lucky enough to experience that. But it almost sounds like you’re asking if I want more than one night.” He stops, frowning again. "Or rather, more than what happens at night.” He’s trying to read Porthos’ eyes, but it seems like all that’s shining there is patience, so he plods forward. It’s awkward, hunting for the right words, but Porthos has been so brave. “Do you mean to propose a—“ There’s really no other word, so Aramis just puts it out there. “A courtship? A romance?”

Porthos’ smile is small but it’s so, so real. Athos looks amused and proud and exasperated. The hand that isn’t still holding Aramis’ wrist is resting on the arm of the sofa, right next to Porthos’. Their small fingers are touching, one draped over the other. It’s the barest intimacy but it’s enough, in this moment. It’s enough. Aramis imagines they’ve kissed, that they’ve cupped each other’s faces and thought about waking in each other’s arms. For all that they’re two men, this is like every other romance Aramis has ever seen. It’s the hints of growing love between two people. That’s where his thoughts keep failing.

“Three people do not fit in a romance, Porthos.”

Athos makes a noise of pure exasperation; Porthos has the triumphant expression he always gets when he sees a problem he can solve.

“Why do you think that?”

“It just doesn’t happen!”

“This,” Athos says with an upward jerk of his eyebrows, “is where my father would be horrified to know that my schooling is able to assist us.” His thumb starts to rub over the bones of Aramis’ wrist. “You may have the better grasp of Latin, Aramis, but I have the Greeks.” Porthos starts laughing. “In all the books I read, I could not begin to count the ways people can belong together. We’ve seen much, you and I, more than most in this world, but even we have not seen everything.”

“I—“ Aramis breaks off and stares at his wrist where Athos’ thumb is still stroking him.

Porthos reaches his hand out, just barely touches Aramis’ shoulder. When Aramis looks up, he can see that Porthos’ eyes are still laughing. “Serves you right for thinking all of Athos’ books were boring military tactics.” Aramis gives a quiet laugh and feels something start to spread in his chest. Porthos’ smile softens. “You say it doesn’t happen. I say we’re the ones who decide that."

Aramis turns his hand palm up and closes his fingers around Athos’ forearm. He doesn’t take his eyes off Porthos’ face. “I have to go to the hospital.” When Porthos’ eyes widen, Aramis hurries to finish. “When I get home, I’ll come up while you play chess. I’ll stay.”  Athos’ wrist turns against Aramis’ palm and now they’re gripping each other’s arms. He can feel Porthos’ fingers on his shoulder, rubbing just a little, and he feels like he might fly apart before this day is over.

Somehow, he doesn’t look back at them as he walks out of the courtyard. 

 

It’s a busy day. Aramis attends a lecture about eye surgery, and he thinks about Porthos’ fingers. He sits in on the treatment of a patient who has come in complaining of numbness, and he remembers the way Athos’ skin felt against his own when they held each other’s arms. It’s while he’s cleaning the instruments after a surgery that his mind begins to spin itself into knots again. How can any of them think this idea might work?  Wanting each other was never in doubt, any two of them would be perfect. But three?

After triage, Aramis participates in the chief surgeon’s rounds and imagines he can still smell the oil on Porthos’ skin. The herbalist calls Aramis over to show him the bud of a plant about to come into flower, and Aramis remembers Athos’ smirk, remembers everything Athos was picturing as he looked at Aramis like that. Their time together tonight will be incredible, without question. But after… what after? Having love in this time, in this place, is uncertain enough. Love with three of them sounds impossible.

 

By the time he leaves the hospital, his robes whispering against the stones of the street, Aramis is exhausted even in the face of his anticipation. Somehow, Porthos knows. He and Athos are sitting in the _iwan_ , still damp from wiping themselves down after returning from the stables. Athos’ half-wet curls are tucked behind his ears. Aramis opens his mouth but Porthos speaks first.

“You look like you’re about to fall over.” He waves Aramis to the couch next to Athos’ hassock at the end of the table, and reaches over to pour a third cup of water. Yusuf brought out three cups, even though only Athos and Porthos were home at the time. This tiny fact warms Aramis to his fingertips. He thinks about the circles his brain spun in all morning and wonders if the same happened to them at the stables. Athos doesn’t miss anything.

“You’re still not sure.”

Aramis almost spills his drink. He looks up at Athos. “I’m not. I’m not unsure. I just can’t even find a place to anchor my mind to this.”

Athos leans over and puts his hand on Aramis’ knee. “This conversation has reached the point where it needs to be had without hidden meanings and whispered voices. We’ll have our evening meal, we’ll have language lessons. Then we’ll talk behind closed doors.”

So rational, their Athos. Somehow so calm in the face of such strangeness. Aramis nods. 

With some food and drink in him and the afternoon sun warming the stones around him, Aramis puts his head back against the sofa and listens to them talk about horses, about d’Artagnan, about the best height for their stirrups. The words wash over him, and Aramis dozes in the afternoon heat. At some point someone brings their books, and Athos begins to read passages from the Arabic text while Porthos gently guides his words until they sound almost native. 

Aramis opens his eyes for a moment and traces one of the designs in the tile of the _iwan_  ceiling. There are words everywhere, letters woven through every part. His eyes drift closed again to the sound of Porthos speaking. He must truly sleep that time, because when his eyes open again the sun has shifted and the table is clear. 

Without sitting up, Aramis stretches every limb he can. He flexes his feet and raises his arms over his head, yawning and feeling his body come back to life. 

“Are you hungry?” Porthos’ voice is quiet and deep and it sends a shiver through Aramis’ body. He shakes his head.

“Then sit up and take the book, it’s your turn.” Athos has managed to marry amusement and exasperation again, in that way only he can. 

 

The remainder of the lesson is just what Aramis needs. It’s longer than they usually take, by the time they are finishing the passage Porthos chose, the light has grown warm and soft and Yusuf is bringing out platters of meat and cheese and noodles. 

At first, the meal is like any other; conversation is easy and Porthos’ smile keeps Aramis warm even as the evening air grows colder. The mood shifts when Athos and Porthos reach for the same piece of bread and Porthos’ fingers stroke over the back of Athos’ hand. There’s a swift intake of breath from Athos and a low rumble from Porthos. Across the table, Aramis’ knee begins to jog up and down. 

Athos half-stands to reach the water pitcher and he puts his hand on Aramis’ thigh to brace himself, squeezing it before he sits back down. Aramis pulls a piece of lamb from the bone with his fingers and pops it into his mouth. Looking up, he sees Porthos watching him and almost without thinking, Aramis brings his thumb to his lips and sucks it clean. The strangled noise Athos makes might be a laugh, but when Aramis licks the rest of the spices from where they’ve dripped down his wrist, Athos goes totally silent. 

The quiet slip-slip-slip of Yusuf’s shoes against the stones of the courtyard sounds like a blacksmith’s hammer in the quiet of that moment. He takes the nearly empty tray from the center of the table and turns to Porthos. “Cook asks if you would like honeyed dates or the sweet rice balls with the next tray?”

“Not tonight, Yusuf,” Porthos says. His eyes never leave Athos’ face. “No more trays tonight.”

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Aramis says, and he smiles as warmly as he can.

“As you say.” As with all good servants, Yusuf keeps his face entirely blank as he takes the tray back to the kitchen. 

In the stillness after his departure, Aramis can hear a dog barking in the street, followed by a child laughing. Around their table, he’s the first to speak. “It’s early, still.”

“It’s late enough,” Porthos says. 

It is.

 

With the door to Porthos’ rooms closed behind them and only the quiet pop and sputter of the candles filling the silence, Aramis feels like none of them knows what to do next.  

He takes a step toward Porthos, only to see Porthos raise his hand. “Aramis.”

“I thought—“

“You both.” Porthos takes a breath. “You two were each so fucking brave. Risking so much, everything really. I felt like this time it had to be me.”

“It _was_  you,” Athos says. “This morning you made…” He clenches and unclenches his hand, looking for words. "You put our secrets together. You trusted that they would fit.” 

Porthos shifts his weight on his crutch. “It wasn’t hard to see. You knew about Aramis and me. And he knew you might not push us away.”

“How?” The frown is in Athos’ voice as much as it’s on his face.

“I knew,” Aramis says. "About the conversation in the stables. He—“

“The stables?” Athos jerks his head up and looks at Porthos. “About the poetry?"

Porthos shakes his head. “About d'Artagnan."

“I thought,” Aramis feels pinned under their eyes. “knowing about your conversation, that my touch might comfort him,” he turns to Porthos. “Hearing you say you wouldn’t be upset about that kind of love.”  He shrugs.

“You didn’t touch me that night.” Porthos’ head is tilted, curious.

Another shrug. “I’m not always as brave as a warrior should be.”

“You didn’t know, did you? When you touched him you didn’t know if he wanted you,” Athos says.

“It wasn’t about me,” Aramis says. “It was about him.”

Athos has his hands on his hips and his head tilted up, he’s staring at the carved ceiling over Porthos bed as he sighs. “Porthos, in the field, or in the hospital, have you had massages before?” Porthos frowns at the question, but he nods. “These massages, did they end the same way? With you covered in your own cooling sweat and spend?"

Porthos chokes on his own breath. “No. They weren’t like that. No, never.”

“They were different than with Aramis.”

“Yes.”

Aramis holds his hand up. “A man in need takes what’s on offer, Athos.”

Athos’ head pivots and he fixes Aramis in place with his stare. 

“I heard you this morning. You said you weren’t pitying the invalid. So were you simply taking hold of the cock that was on offer?”

“Of course not!” Aramis feels himself spitting out the words. It wasn’t like that; it was never like that. He remembers the thought he’d had earlier, that it had only ever been _Porthos_  he was touching. Not a patient or a soldier or the nearest cock. “No, he’s—“ Aramis looks at Porthos. “You have only ever been special."

When he speaks, Porthos sounds almost angry. “Do you think you two were ever anything else to me? Because if you think I let you touch me just because I needed to come, you should remember I may be down one leg but I’ve still got two good hands. The both of you.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “You’re like no men I’ve ever met.” He opens his eyes again and looks Aramis in the eyes. 

Aramis is so busy trying to read what he sees there that Athos’ voice startles him.

“Is it so hard, Aramis, for you to believe that if he is special to you, that you are special to him?”

Frustrated, confused, Aramis snaps out the next words before he even thinks about them. “Is it hard for you?"

Athos looks like he might have puzzled this out. “Is that it? Is that what’s been bothering you all day? Do you feel like somehow you’re not worth his attention? His affection? Or mine?”

“No, no. I only. It’s not that I feel I don’t deserve you, that I don’t deserve this. It’s not that I worry you don’t want me, I never doubted that. I keep trying to find the right words but they escape me every time.”

Porthos rests a hand on his shoulder. “Sit.” He pushes on Aramis’ shoulder until Aramis sinks onto the side of the bed. “Take your time, we’re not going anywhere.” Carefully, leaning on his crutch, Porthos mixes some lemon syrup with water and passes Aramis the cup. Aramis smiles at him, knowing his heart is on his face. 

It takes longer than he might have expected, but eventually he gives up on finding the right words and just says the thoughts as they are in his head.

“I wonder. If you want me, does that mean you find something lacking in each other? I worry, Athos, that you will see Porthos smile at me and ask what joy he gets from me that he can’t get from you. I worry that I will see Porthos holding you and fear there won’t be enough of his heart for me as well. Will one of us ever wonder if he is in the bed only because the others don’t want him to feel left out, rather than because they truly want him there? It won’t be true, but how do you talk sense to fears like that?” He props his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands. Scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Aramis sighs. "I don’t know any way that a third person fits into love without jealousy. As I said this morning, a tumble is one thing, but this is. This is something very different.”

He looks up at Athos. “How are you so easy with this?”

“Because this part is not the fight. Wanting in the first place, that was the fight. That was _my_  fight.” Athos steps closer. “You have your own fight. We can’t know the way the heart works, Aramis. Let me address the doctor in you, the natural philosopher who believes in experiments and proof.”

“Yes?” Aramis asks, and he looks up in time to see Athos crouching in front of him. He pulls Aramis’ hands away from his face and curls his fingers into Aramis’ beard, tugging him closer and opening his mouth for a kiss. 

Since he joined the order, Aramis has pressed his lips to cheeks, to foreheads, to hands and rings, but feeling another mouth on his own after so long is enough to make his hands shake. His fingers curling in the fabric of his own robes, Aramis can feel the moment Athos realizes that Aramis won’t pull back. He sighs, breath warm against Aramis’ cheek, and sinks into the kiss. His hand releases Aramis’ beard and starts stroking his face. Soft touches trace Aramis’ cheekbones and temples. Through his beard, Aramis can feel the light scrape of fingernails against the line of his jaw.

If Athos’ noises are quiet sighs, Aramis is hoarse and raw. He groans at the first swipe of Athos’ tongue against his lower lip and then almost growls when Athos licks into his mouth. It seems an instant, but he must have lost some time, because when Aramis finally breaks away to take in deep gulps of air, his hands are gripping Athos’ shoulders.

Athos’ hands have never stopped touching him. The pad of a thumb drags over one of Aramis’ eyebrows at the same time he feels a warm palm glide over the side of his neck. He knows he’s being gentled, that this is how Athos touches a skittish horse, but Aramis doesn’t care. Bending to kiss the same spot of Aramis’ neck he was just touching, Athos mutters into Aramis’ skin.

“Porthos?”

When he answers, Porthos voice is barely a breath. “Yes?”

“When you see this”—a kiss to the underside of Aramis’ jaw—“are you jealous?”

Porthos laughs so loud they all freeze for a second to listen for footsteps. When he relaxes again, Porthos curls his hand over Athos’ shoulder. “I’m not sorry you’re feeling so comfortable around us these days, but who knew you were such a shit?”

“The question stands.”

“No,” Porthos says and Aramis can hear how thick his voice has become.  Aramis wants to kiss Athos again. He wants to feel Athos’ perfect, wet mouth on his like it was before. There’s nothing like restraint left in him. Licking his lips, Aramis lunges forward and groans as Athos’ mouth opens under his. It’s as perfect as the first time. Better, even, because Aramis can feel the weight of Porthos’ stare on them and hear his breathing get ragged. 

Porthos lowers himself to the bed next to Aramis. “Not jealous, no. All I’m feeling is how much seeing you kiss makes me want to be touching you both.”  Porthos’ hand settles on the back of Aramis’ neck and Aramis half sobs into Athos’ mouth. The touch feels so good. 

Aramis is drunk with how much they’re touching him. Porthos’ hand on the back of his neck is meeting Athos’ hand curled around the side. Athos’ other hand is cupping his cheek and Aramis can feel Porthos’ thigh pressed against his. How does this feel so good? For weeks now, Aramis has been touching Porthos nearly every chance they got. He’s felt Porthos’ skin against his own again and again. This is different.

Oh.

Every time, every time it was Aramis touching Porthos. Aramis reaching out to him and putting his hands on Porthos. Something, and in hindsight it was probably the fear that Aramis was doing this out of pity, had kept Porthos from touching Aramis. Now they are both reaching out to him and it feels so fucking good.

Athos pulls back, sucking at Aramis’ lower lip. “Go on,” he says, and puts his fingers on Aramis’ jaw, turning his head until Aramis is staring right at Porthos.

Aramis blinks and tries to focus. Porthos is staring back at him, his eyes big and dark. For a few seconds neither of them moves; there’s no sound in the room but their breath. The groan from Porthos shatters the silence as he grips the back of Aramis’ neck and pulls him in. 

He can feel everywhere that Porthos’ skin is touching his. The stroke of Porthos’ nose against his own and the scrape of Porthos’ beard against his cheeks overwhelms Aramis, and it’s not until he feels Porthos’ tongue lick at his lips that Aramis gasps and gives himself over to the kiss. 

At some point, Athos has moved to sit on Aramis’ other side because when Aramis finally comes back to himself, he can feel Athos’ hand stroking his back. 

“More?” Athos asks and Aramis can only nod and fall into another kiss. Breathless when they part again, Aramis pushes up until he’s arched over Athos and then comes down again astride Athos’ lap. He’s spent weeks, months, keeping his hands to himself, snatching back every near-touch, and now he wants nothing more than to feel these men against him, skin to skin. His left hand pushes up into Athos’ hair, cradling the back of his head while his right hand braces on Athos’ shoulder, and still they keep kissing. 

When Aramis stops again, gulping in air, Athos sucks at the column of his throat. He bites kisses into the skin there and Aramis wonders if he’ll still be able to touch these spots tomorrow, if he’ll be able to press on the bruise and hiss, remembering how it feels right now.  Athos teeth scrape over the side of his neck and Aramis finds himself arching against Athos’ body.

It has to be Athos’ cock that’s jutting against the cradle of Aramis’ hips. It’s hard and hot even through all these layers, and Aramis wants it. He’s tugging and pulling at the neck of Athos’ shirts, exposing Athos’ collarbone and ducking his head to kiss it and lick the curve of Athos’ neck. The smell of Athos’ skin is filling his nose and the heat of Athos’ skin is warming him through, he can taste the salt of sweat as he licks that spot on Athos’ throat that he’s been watching for weeks. His ears are full of the sound of Athos breathing and Porthos groaning and everything is too much and not enough. 

Athos makes a frustrated noise and Aramis realizes that he’s been trying to undo the fasteners on Aramis’ robes. He’s about to start yanking at them. 

“I. I can do that.” He bats Athos’ hands away. “Let me before you snap one of the buckles.”

“So concerned with his finery,” Athos says and Porthos laughs.

Aramis sniffs and pushes back off Athos’ lap. He’s standing at the side of the bed undoing one leather buckle after another and trying not to fumble under the weight of their stares. “If you’d rather, I can let you keep trying and we will still be here, fully clothed, when Hamid comes to help Porthos dress in the morning.” 

Porthos’ laugh is filthy. “No, this is only for us.”

There’s a moment where Aramis is almost shy. He’s the only one undressing and that will never do. This is a night for being brave, enough to want things openly, to talk about and ask for them. “Athos?”

Startled by the sound of his own name, Athos looks up from where he’s watching Aramis’ fingers. His lips are parted, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Aramis. It’s Porthos who comes to their rescue.

“You want to see Athos, too, don’t you?”

“I do. So much. I want—“ 

“You want to see what you’re doing to him the way he’ll be able to see what he’s doing to you.”

Aramis nods. 

Athos steps off the bed and has his own embarrassed hitch in his breath. They’re watching each other and Porthos is watching them both. Everything so far has been fevered and rushed, even with all the talking it could still be passed off as a mistake. The overheated room and no women. This, though?

There is no way to pretend that Aramis is tugging loose fasteners on his robes for any reason other than to bare himself to the other two. No plausible, innocent excuse exists for the way Athos reaches backward over his shoulders and pulls his undershirt up and over his head. The heavy clink of Athos’ belt hitting the floor sounds like thunder in the room, and Aramis halts his own progress to watch Athos push his pants to his ankles. 

“I didn’t realize how dark your face had gotten from the sun,” Porthos says. It’s an offhand comment that has no real place in this moment, but it gives Aramis the second and a half he needs to take a deep breath. He pulls the last knot through the last loop and shrugs his robe off his shoulders. It catches for a second on his hands before pooling around his ankles. He steps out of it and looks up to see Porthos staring back at him. 

It’s been so many years since someone looked at his bare chest with naked lust, and Aramis can feel the blood rush to his face. He doesn’t break eye contact with Porthos as he pulls at the ends of the drawstring holding up his braies and feels the knot come loose. Part of him thinks that this is the last moment he could stop, the last chance for him to grab his clothes and run, leaving behind this foolish and possibly suicidal plan. The rest of him knows the truth: he was never going to leave. Not from the moment the door closed behind them. They’ve been heading for tonight since Aramis got off his horse at Cresson Springs and none of them have taken a single one of opportunities to step off this path. Why would they start now?

Someone has to go first, and Aramis thinks it might as well be him. Another chance to be brave. He hooks his thumb into the waist of his braies and pulls until the fabric is loose around his hips, and then he lets go. It doesn’t get far. In the back he can feel the night air on his ass, but in the front, the linen is caught on his erection. There’s a noise from the bed, but when Aramis looks up, it’s Athos’ who catches his eye first. He’s smirking at Aramis, knowing full well what kind of moment he was going for. ‘You tried,’ his expression says.

Aramis stares a challenge back at Athos as he cups his own cock, squeezing and pressing and grinding against his palm. Athos’ smirk disappears and his eyes go hot and dark as Aramis strokes himself, working the linen lower and lower each time until the fabric is on the floor and his palm is slick with his own need.

Dropping his own braies, Athos climbs back onto the bed. He sits with his back against the headboard and his legs straight out in front of him. “Come here,” he says and holds his hand out to Aramis. 

It’s not graceful, the way Aramis knee-walks his way across the mattress and the layers of linen and blankets, but it’s worth it for the way he can feel the heat of Athos’ skin before they’re even touching. He swings one leg over Athos’ lap and hisses at the scrape of crisp hairs against the inside of his thighs. Curling his fingers over the headboard, Aramis lowers himself, moaning all the while, until he’s got his full weight on Athos and their bodies are pressed together from hip to throat. Athos takes advantage of the flesh displayed in front of him and bites into the meat of Aramis’ chest, licking at the skin in his mouth and sucking kisses across Aramis’ collarbone. 

Aramis whines, his grip on the headboard tightening as he tries to pull himself closer to Athos, tries to pull himself _into_  Athos. 

The bed jostles as Porthos stands, bracing himself on the headboard and shuffling his way to their end. He kneels on the mattress with his good leg. “Move over,” he says.

Athos pulls his head away from Aramis’ chest with a wet pop and looks at Porthos from under hair that’s come loose from its leather thong. 

“So you can try to get across the bed on your bad leg and Aramis can worry you’ll set your recovery back? No, I don’t think so.”

Porthos frowns for a second before he grins. “I should just sit here and watch, then?”

Aramis licks his lower lip. 

“You better make it worth my while,” Porthos says.

Trying on his filthiest look, Aramis says, “I promise.” He’s already looking forward to it. “We’ll make you—“ The hand in Aramis’ hair tugs and he hisses, looking back down at Athos. 

“Look at me,” he says, and Aramis nods.

Athos grips his hips, his thumbs dug into the hollows and his fingers pushing into the muscles of his ass. Aramis hopes again for bruises tomorrow. He wants to see them and remember how hot Athos’ stare is right now. The grip gets tighter as Athos pulls Aramis closer, rocking his hips up into Aramis’ groin and dragging their cocks together. 

Aramis cries out with how good it feels and Athos lets go of his hip with one hand and wraps it around the back of Aramis neck. He pulls Aramis down and kisses him quiet. 

“That’s right, we don’t want him making too much noise,” Porthos says. “Don’t want anyone coming in here and spoiling our fun while Athos is still busy leaving such pretty marks on you." Aramis feels Athos’ fingernails dig into his skin and whines into the kiss. “Can you be quieter?” 

Aramis nods, his mouth never leaving Athos’. The hand on his neck slides up to cradle the back of Aramis’ head and then tugs his hair again until Aramis breaks the kiss, gasping and panting into the hot air of the room. 

“Do you hear how loud I am?” Athos asks in a normal speaking voice. Aramis nods. “If you get louder than this even one more time, I’ll stop and Porthos and I will continue without you. Understood?” It’s an empty threat, but it’s enough to make Aramis nod again, eager and earnest. It must be good enough, because both of Athos’ hands are on his hips again and Aramis is being held in place, his groin tight against Athos’, while Athos fucks his cock against Aramis’ skin.

Without changing the position of his hips more than necessary, Aramis leans back just a little, rounding over until he can see where they’re touching, can see the curve of his own cock, dark against his belly and the slick, red head of Athos’ cock pushing past his foreskin and dragging over Aramis hip again and again. 

“Looks good?” Porthos asks and Aramis can only nod, speechless. Porthos must not be able to see from that angle, but it doesn’t stop him from speculating. “I bet Athos’ cock is so pretty, bet it’s straight and long and his hair has those streaks of auburn like he gets on his head and in his beard.”

“You’re half right. Oh please, Athos, don’t stop.” Aramis looks over at Porthos and tries to make his eyes focus. “There’s red in the curls, yes, but it curves to the left some.”

Athos groans. “Must we?” he says and Aramis rewards his indulgence of their teasing by rocking his hips forward and trapping Athos’ cock between their bellies. 

“I bet he’s getting you all wet,” Porthos says and Aramis isn’t sure which of them he’s talking to, but he’s right either way. “There must be a nice slick spot where he’s rubbing against you and I can’t wait to see your faces when he makes it even wetter.”

Aramis lets go of the headboard and wraps his arms around Athos’ shoulders. He buries his face as far into Athos’ neck as he can and just works his cock against Athos’ skin over and over. It might be easier for them both if one of them were to get a hand in there. Stroking them off together would be faster and probably make them come harder, but Aramis can’t imagine giving up this slow, relentless grinding and the feel of Athos’ lips against his skin. His lips and his teeth. He’s biting again, worrying at the tendon at the side of Aramis’ neck with a growl and Aramis can’t keep from groaning.

Taking advantage of their closeness, Athos wraps his arms around Aramis’ waist and grips the meat of Aramis’ ass. His fingernails dig in and Aramis has to put his mouth over Athos’ shoulder to keep from yelling with how good his touch feels.  Aramis can feel the air of the room cooling the sweat in the crease of his ass as Athos pulls and grips at him, exposing him even as he tries to get Aramis closer. Athos twists his wrists and the pad of one finger strokes over Aramis’ hole. Freezing for a second, Aramis wonders if it was an accident until he feels Athos do it again. There’s no pressure, just the promise of it in the scrape of Athos’ calluses over that tender skin. He’s explored there himself, but this is the first time another person has touched that spot on Aramis and it’s almost too much.

He’s just getting himself under control when Porthos starts talking again. “I can’t see his hands, but from that sound I know what Athos must be doing.” He drops his voice lower. “We talked about those calluses, didn’t we, Aramis? You and me, we talked about how they’d feel on our skin and how much we wanted them, but I’m guessing you never even thought to wonder how they’d feel on that tight little spot. It’s good, yeah?” Aramis nods and hopes Porthos can see it. "It’s like when he’s biting you in the middle of kisses. Like he just can’t help himself, like he just has to have more of you. You like when he’s hungry.”

Aramis picks his head up and looks at Porthos again, his eyes hazy and unfocused. “I wanted to feel his fingers. They feel so good right there. They feel so good everywhere.”

“I want to see those calluses drag against your cock,” Porthos says and for some reason it’s those words that send Aramis over the edge. With a strangled grunt he fucks against Athos’ skin a few more times and then comes, splashing hot and thick against Athos’ chest. His hips won’t stop, working against Athos again and again as Aramis feels his own release making their contact slick and fast.

“Yes,” Athos says, his teeth clenched. “Yes, like that.”

“You ready, Athos?” Porthos asks and Athos groans, dropping his forehead against Aramis’ neck. “You gonna let Aramis know how hot he makes you just by showing you how much he wants you? You didn’t see his face, Athos, like it was too much for him and still not enough. Like he never thought anything could feel this good. I saw what you did to him, Athos. Let him see what he does to you.”

Athos looks up, catching Aramis eye. He keeps staring as he clutches at Aramis and fucks his cock up into Aramis’ come. “This. You do this to me.” His face twists like he’s in pain and his mouth falls open but otherwise he goes silent and still. Aramis feels Athos' cock pump, jerking against Aramis’ skin as he comes. Every pulse makes the head slap against Aramis’ belly and Aramis will never forget that feeling.

As the pulses get softer and further apart, Athos face relaxes, his eyes focusing on Aramis again. One side of his face curls in a smile even as his mouth still hangs open, panting. 

“Kiss me,” Aramis says and Athos does. It’s tender, and softer than their earlier kisses, but just as hot in his gut. It goes on longer than either of them might have intended, but they’re not rushing anything tonight, not if they can help it. When Aramis leans back again, he sees Porthos holding out a wet cloth. 

“You like how it feels now, but you’re not gonna like it when it gets cold and starts to itch.” 

Athos chuckles and takes the cloth from Porthos while Aramis stares, dumbfounded.

“Did you just laugh, Athos?”

“It’s not unheard of.”

“Six months, Athos. Six months and you’ve never laughed. If I’d known all it took was this, I’d have done it months ago.”

Athos doesn’t look up as he wipes the cloth over Aramis’ chest. “Yes. Well.”

“Months ago it wouldn’t have worked,” Porthos says and they all know he’s right. This night, this joining of the three of them, could never have been rushed, could never have happened any other way.

Aramis shifts backwards so that Athos can clean the rest of him and then holds out his hand for the cloth. He folds it until he’s got a clean side and strokes it down Athos’ chest. He’s beautiful. The crisp curls on his chest glow red in the lamplight and his skin is a warm gold. Aramis wants to lick him clean, but even in this afterglow he’s not that shameless. Not tonight. Someday, though. Someday, he’ll lay Athos across the bed and give him the treatment he deserves. Aramis will lick and suck and… well, worship him, as blasphemous as that sounds. Not that the way he feels for these men could ever be a blasphemy. 

Rather than handing the cloth back to Porthos, Aramis crawls across the bed to drop it in the basin on the bedside table. He kneels up and puts his hands on his thighs, looking Porthos up and down. “Now, what shall we do with you?” It’s always been easier to be playful with Porthos. “Move, Athos.” 

Between the three of them, they get Porthos to the center of the bed, on his back with his head on the pillows. “Athos, when you were watching the other night, did you notice how beautiful Porthos is with his skin bared?”

Neither of them mentions that with all the massages these past months, Athos has seen Porthos shirtless more times than he can count. 

“I did.”

“And last night, when you were with him. Did you see how perfect he is? How strong his legs are even after the injury?” Athos agrees again, because it had been the first time he’d seen that and it had been breathtaking. “I think we should both get to see that again.”

“I could not agree more.” 

Aramis kneels up and kisses Athos before stretching out along Porthos’ right side and bending to kiss him. He’s cupping Porthos’ face, brushing his thumb over Porthos’ cheekbone, and Porthos opens under him like a gift. Porthos’ big hands clutch at Aramis’ arms, pulling him closer and holding him tight and Aramis loves it, he loves the possessive way Porthos is holding him. It’s so unlike the way he was before, his fingers holding the bed or the sheets rather than Aramis’ skin. Aramis wants all his touches. 

Sitting beside them, Athos works open one knot-and-loop fastener after another until he can open Porthos’ overshirt. “Up,” he says. Aramis and Porthos break their kiss long enough for Porthos to sit and shrug out of the overshirt and let them pull the undershirt over his head. As if he’s unable to resist the skin on display, Athos bends to kiss Porthos’ shoulder and then his neck. He kisses along Porthos’ jaw and then pulls back, staring at Porthos’ face. 

“It’s only been one day,” Athos says. “How can I have missed your mouth so much?” It’s so sentimental, and Aramis thinks about the Athos of the Citadel at La Sepphorie and the ride to Hattin, a man no one would have thought capable of soft romance. Porthos answers with a low rumble and his hand on Athos’ neck, pulling him close. 

Aramis watches them kiss while he pulls off Porthos’ boots and unbuckles his belt. He can hear their breath, hear how Athos groans and Porthos sighs, and see Athos’ jaw drop as his mouth opens for Porthos’ tongue. Slipping Porthos’ pouch and dagger off of his belt, Aramis sets them on the bedside table. He pulls at the belt and Porthos arches the small of his back off the bed so Aramis can pull it free. The movement pushes his body up against Athos and Athos takes the opportunity to move his hand from Porthos’ arm to his chest. 

He strokes down Porthos’ chest and slips his fingers under the waistband of Porthos’ pants, pushing at them. 

“You want them gone, don’t you?” Aramis says and Athos breaks away to answer.

“Desperately.”

“Come do it then.”

They kiss briefly as they pass each other and Aramis drags his fingers across Athos’ belly even as he’s bending to kiss Porthos again. 

“I like this,” Aramis says. “I like taking turns with your mouth.” 

Porthos smirks. “Show me how much you like it, and maybe you can keep doing it.” 

“Is that any way to speak to a man of God?” Aramis asks but any further rebuke is lost in a grunt as Porthos reaches one hand down and cups Aramis’ half-hard cock. 

“Tonight you don’t belong to your god. Tonight you belong to us.” 

“Yes.” Aramis bends and swipes his closed mouth against Porthos’, feeling Porthos’ beard drag against his own. “Yes.”

Porthos arches again as Athos pulls down both his pants and his braies, tugging them over his ankles and throwing them into the corner by the door. 

For all that Aramis has seen each part of Porthos’ body separately, this is the first time Porthos has been completely bare for him, for them, and both Aramis and Athos stop to take it in. His skin is oiled bronze in the lamplight and the cut of every muscle casts a dark shadow. The rise and fall of his belly as he breathes is too much for Aramis and he has to kiss it. He swipes his tongue over Porthos’ skin and tastes the salt of his sweat and hears him gasp. For all his hardness on his legs and arms, for all the ropy muscles in his back, Porthos’ belly is just a little soft and Aramis gets lost in how that tenderness feels against his cheek.

Athos pulls one of Porthos’ knees up and to the side and then moves until he’s kneeling between Porthos’ spread thighs. Again and again he strokes his hands up Porthos’ thighs and back down again. He drags his hands over Porthos’ belly, over the spot Aramis just kissed, and Aramis smiles at Porthos. 

“Now _you_  get to feel his hands. Are they as perfect as you wanted?” 

Porthos shakes his head, his eyes locked on Athos’ face. “Better.”

“Good,” Aramis says. He drapes himself over Porthos’ chest and takes his mouth in a kiss. Porthos groans and sucks at Aramis’ lips, grabs at his shoulders, tries to pull Aramis closer and closer. Nothing has ever felt like Porthos laying claim to him. Nothing. Aramis wants Porthos’ mouth on his neck, wants to be marked.

With a strangled curse in Arabic, Porthos tears his mouth from Aramis’ and drops his head to the pillow. His eyes are slammed shut and his jaw clenched. Aramis looks down the bed to see Athos with his nose buried in the crease of Porthos’ groin and thigh. He’s breathing in, taking in the spicy, sweet smell of Porthos’ skin and laying little kisses along the sensitive places along his inner thigh. 

Aramis can see Porthos’ thighs clench, can see his back arch and bow and see him struggle not to thrust his hips up into Athos’ face. His fingers are digging into Aramis’ shoulders and Aramis revels in the bite of his nails. “Is his mouth as good as his hands? Or is it better?”

“I—I can’t. He—“ Porthos’ jaw clenches again and he hisses. Aramis can see that Athos has spread his legs wider, has lowered himself until he’s flat on his belly on the bed, his face at Porthos’ groin and his tongue licking at the skin of Porthos’ balls. He digs his face in and Aramis loses sight of what’s going on. At this point he’d only be able to see what Athos is doing if he were right in there next to Athos, helping him. The idea sends a heat through Aramis’ belly and he tucks it away to think about later. 

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s—Sweet fuck.” 

Aramis tries to keeps his voice light, innocent. “I think you should tell me, Porthos. I can’t see it for myself.”

Athos raises his head and props his chin on Porthos’ thigh. His face is guileless. “You should, he’s right.”

Aramis moves until he’s looking straight into Porthos’ eyes. “Do it for Athos. After all, how else can he tell you’re enjoying it? If you go silent, he’ll have to assume you don’t like it and stop. Won’t you, Athos?”

“I wouldn’t want to subject Porthos to something he wasn’t enjoying.”

Aramis laughs. “Exactly. As you were, Athos.”

“We’re taking direction from you now?” Athos says. 

“I’m a scholar, Athos. I’m dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge.”

“Please,” Porthos says. “ _Please_.” Which is when Aramis realizes that every time Athos speaks, his beard brushes against Porthos’ balls and Porthos' cock jerks against his hip. 

Athos looks up at them both from under his hair and wraps his mouth as far around Porthos’ balls as he can. Sighing against Porthos’ skin, Athos loses himself in his task.

“Is he using his tongue?” Aramis asks and Porthos nods. “Tell me.”

At first, Porthos can only breathe, almost panting with his mouth hanging open, but soon enough he blinks his eyes open and looks at Aramis. “He’s licking me. His mouth is around me and it’s hot. It’s so hot. His lips are soft but then his tongue is a little rough and—fuck. He’s—something. It’s like he’s rolling his tongue against me. It’s so good. Athos, you’re so good.”

Aramis can’t help it, he has to kiss Porthos. The desperation that meets him is a testament to everything Athos is doing, everything Aramis can’t see and Porthos can’t articulate. Porthos gasps into his mouth and Aramis looks down to see Athos reaching up to rub Porthos’ belly.

He strokes his palms up and then curls his hands to scratch his fingernails back down. Not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to make Porthos arch and strain. 

“Sucking. He’s sucking them now. Sucking me. So hot. And his hands.”

“I see his hands. I see him touching you. He can’t stop touching you.”

“Don’t want him to stop. Don’t stop, Athos.” 

Athos ducks his head and Porthos actually squirms. He’s silent, panting.

Aramis can’t resist the tease. “He’ll stop if you don’t tell me.”

“The same,” Porthos says, eyes wide, "but still so good. He’s sucking me into his mouth and then licking me while his mouth is around me. He’s making me so wet and his mouth is so warm and good. I’ve never had this, never knew how much I’d love it.”

“You’ve never been sucked before?”

“My cock. Just my cock.”

“Never like this?”

“Never my balls. I’m glad, though. I’m glad to have this with you two.”

Aramis knows what he means, how nice it is to have something they’ve discovered together, something that’s only been done by the people in this room right now. As if the simple fact that they’re all here together, that each of them is opening his heart as well as his body to the other two, were not new enough.

“I hope we all have something like this, something we can give to each other for the first time.”

There’s a filthy slurping noise from between Porthos’ thighs and Porthos groans. Athos grips Porthos’ hips and Aramis can imagine rough scrape of those calluses against Porthos’ skin. 

“He keeps. He keeps licking me again and again and he keeps swiping at the bottom of my cock when he does.”

“I think he’s giving you fair warning, Porthos. If you don’t want Athos’ mouth on your cock, you should tell him now.”

Athos sucks a wet kiss right at the base of Porthos’ cock and Porthos digs his fingernails into Aramis’ arm. “ _I need his mouth_. Athos, I need your mouth.” 

With a sigh and a smile, Athos kisses and licks his way up Porthos’ cock. His hands are busy stroking Porthos’ thighs and hips, lightly scratching, so Athos is using his mouth alone. He keeps sucking as he pulls back and lifts Porthos’ cock off his belly enough that Athos can get his tongue under it. More slurping, sucking kisses, more slick trails as his mouth moves up, and then, oh. Yes. With only the smallest pause to change the angle of his neck, Athos takes the fat, weeping head of Porthos’ cock into his plush, wet mouth.

Aramis barely makes it in time, slamming his mouth over Porthos’ just as Porthos gets enough air to shout. The sound and its aftershocks are swallowed up by Aramis’ mouth. He kisses Porthos until there’s no sound but the quiet, soft whine of a man consumed by pleasure. 

“I can see him now, but only his lips, his head. Is he still licking you?”

Porthos nods. 

“Your shaft?”

“Head. He’s licking my head. His tongue keeps running along the ridge.”

“He’s used to moving skin over that ridge, touching it bare only later. Yours is so easy to reach. I’m not surprised he can’t stop.” 

This time it’s Athos who can’t hold back the noise, growling around Porthos’ cock and digging his fingernails into Porthos’ belly. He slides his hands until they’re cupping Porthos’ ass and pulls Porthos up and into his mouth. 

“I can feel my cock rubbing the roof of his mouth. He’s got me all wet and his mouth is still so warm.”

“He’s trying to pull you into his mouth, he knows you won’t push him, but he wants more.” Aramis kisses Porthos’ throat, his jaw, the spot behind his ear. “Do you think his throat is hotter than his mouth?”

Porthos lets go of Aramis with one hand so he can shove his fist in his mouth and groan around it. 

They won’t find out tonight, this is entirely the wrong position for it, but Aramis knows there will be a night not long from now when Athos will tip his head back and look up at Porthos and take that gorgeous cock so far in that he weeps. 

Unable to stop himself, Aramis bucks his hips down into the sheets at the image in his head. 

“What now?” Aramis asks.

“He’s moving his head. Just. Just up and down but he’s sucking me. He’s sucking me so sweet and I just—“

“I can’t imagine how good it feels. Has he stopped with his tongue?”

“Almost. It’s like. It’s like his he’s sucking me with his tongue against me; every time he moves his head he rubs his tongue on me.”

Aramis can imagine the heat of Athos’ tongue cradling Porthos’ cock as he sucks. His own mouth feels empty; Aramis has to have something in it, anything. He drops his head to Porthos’ shoulder and opens his mouth wide, sucking and mouthing at the skin and flesh. He won’t get his turn with Porthos’ cock tonight, but he’ll wait as long as it takes.

“I can’t. Aramis I can’t wait much longer.”

“It’s been so hard, holding off. All this time with his mouth on you and all that time watching us. You don’t have to wait, Porthos.”

“Pull off, Athos. I’m going to—Athos you have to let go.” Porthos’ hands are pulling at Athos’ shoulders.

Aramis can see Athos’ cheeks hollow out as he sucks again, ducking his head to take Porthos further in and strengthening his hold on Porthos’ hips. No matter what Porthos says, Athos wants everything he can get. 

Porthos is muttering under his breath and no matter how he strains, Aramis can’t make out a word. He pulls one of Porthos’ hands from Athos’ shoulder, taking it in his own. He’s clutching Porthos and kissing his cheek, his throat, his neck and shoulders. There’s so much of Porthos’ skin he hasn’t kissed yet and he needs it all. 

Just when Aramis thinks he’s going to have to stop kissing Porthos’ jaw and tell him again that it’s okay to let go, Porthos turns and buries his face in Aramis’ hair, sobbing as he comes. If he strains, looking down the length of Porthos’ body, Aramis can see how Porthos’ balls have drawn up tight and are jerking tighter with each pulse of his cock. Aramis turns back into Porthos’ arms and holds him as he finishes shuddering and gasping. 

With one hand, Porthos cards his fingers through Athos’ hair as Athos pulls up and off of his cock, laying one last soft kiss to the head. He takes a second to lick any traces that have dripped onto Porthos’ balls, hanging heavy and loose again. Aramis holds Porthos as Athos walks over to the bedside table to spit in the basin and rinse his mouth with water from one of the cups. 

“Perhaps next time,” he says and Aramis’ belly drops when he hears the rough promise in Athos’ voice.

“I don’t think he cares if you swallow,” Aramis says. 

Porthos blinks, noticing for the first time that they’re both staring at him. “What? Oh. Did you spit it on the floor?”

Athos rears back. “Of course I didn’t spit it on the floor."

“Then I don’t give a damn.” He grins and puts his hand on the sheet next to him. "Come back to bed.”

Like Aramis, Athos has gotten half-hard again, his cock swaying in front of him as he walks. If they were younger men this might only be the first round of the night, but it’s enough for them to tuck themselves into Porthos’ sides and let the arousal hum through them as they hold each other.

Porthos drops a kiss into Athos’ hair. “If you weren’t going to swallow, why didn’t you pull off?”

Athos scratches lightly at Porthos’ belly, rakes his nails through the hair above Porthos’ cock. “I didn’t know I wasn’t going to swallow it until it came time. And I wanted to feel you in my mouth.” He buries his face against Porthos’ skin. “I wanted to feel you. That throbbing.”

The noise Porthos makes is a cross between a rumble and a growl as he pulls Athos tighter against him. 

“I can hear in your voice how much you wanted it,” Aramis says. “I’m imagining how you’ll sound if he fucks your throat.”

Athos groans against Porthos’ chest. “Aramis, I would like to get some sleep tonight.” 

“Am I stopping you?” Aramis tries for innocence.

“As long as you keep my cock this hard? Yes.” 

Porthos sighs, his hand stroking Aramis’ back. “You both have to go.”

“Not just yet,” Aramis says.

“Five minutes,” Athos says. 

The room is quiet enough for them to hear the fountain in the courtyard and the insects in the trees. Aramis’ senses soak up the room, the heat of their bodies and the smell of sex. He can still taste the sweat on Porthos’ throat and feel Athos fingers digging into his skin. If he closes his eyes, Aramis can still see Porthos’ face as Athos strained for more and hear Athos’ sighs when they first kissed. He could play the night over and over, but instead he thinks about what he wants next, the promise of more that came with Athos’ finger against his hole and the sight of Porthos’ cock in Athos’ mouth.

It could be five minutes later or it could be an hour gone by when Athos clears his throat. 

“I know,” Porthos says, and clutches them both to him one last time. 

Aramis kisses Porthos’ neck and then his mouth. “You’re half asleep already, you’ll barely notice we’re gone.”

Porthos’ brow furrows. “I’ll know.” He lifts his head to kiss Aramis again.

There are kisses from Athos, too, sweet and warm. Aramis watches them as he tugs his robes back around himself. Athos practically goes liquid against Porthos’ chest as they kiss, his fingers curling and uncurling over Porthos’ shoulders. “Good night, Porthos,” Athos says, their foreheads resting together.

Porthos can’t resist one last kiss for Athos, either.

Turning, Athos sees Aramis holding his braies and boots against his chest along with his leather vest. He nods. “Yes, barefoot will be quieter.”

Athos pulls his undershirt over his head and Aramis can see the moment where Athos wonders if the shirt hangs low enough that he can get away with not putting his braies back on. He makes the decision for Athos, picking the braies up from the floor along with Athos’ hose, his overshirt and his boots. He pushes them against Athos’ chest with a dull thud. 

“We need to go before we can’t make ourselves leave.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” He takes hold of Aramis’ arm and pulls him in. They get as close as their respective bundles of clothing will let them and Aramis sighs just a little as he feels Athos’ mouth on his again. 

Porthos groans. “It’s lucky for you both that I can’t get up from here and pull you back down. Now, get out.”

Athos only smiles at him and gives another one of those quiet chuckles.

Aramis leans his head out onto the balcony, checking to see if anyone else is about. He waves Athos out and they each slow a little to look back at Porthos as they leave. 

Standing in front of Athos’ door, Aramis wants to kiss him again. He wants to push Athos through his door hold him all night.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Athos says and Aramis thanks God that one of them can keep a clear head right now.

“Yes. In the morning.” 

He wants to stay awake and relive the night some more, but the heavy sated weight of his limbs and the pleasant buzz of his afterglow send Aramis to sleep almost before his head hits his pillow.

 

  
When the birdsong wakes him, Aramis rolls over in his bed, thinking of what awaits him in the hospital and forgetting, for a moment, everything that happened the night before. It isn’t until he feels a twinge of muscle ache in his thighs that he remembers straddling Athos’ lap and shamelessly riding him. He remembers Athos’ hands against Porthos’ belly as Porthos came in his mouth and he remembers the way Porthos watched them go. 

He sighs, both happy and sad, and yawns, stretching his entire body from fingers to toes. 

A quick survey of his body tells Aramis that he has fingertip bruises over his hips and a love bite on his collarbone, both from Athos, he’s sure. He has scratches on his shoulders, those are from Porthos, and beard-burn on his neck that could be from either of them. The idea of going through his day with these precious aches is enough to make his cock twitch with interest. Later, he promises himself. Later.

Both Athos and Porthos are waiting for him in the _iwan_  and there’s a fresh cup of tea at his place. 

“Good morning,” Aramis says, squeezing Porthos’ shoulder and letting his fingers drag over the back of Athos’ neck as he takes his seat. 

“I’ve got something for you,” Porthos says. He puts a piece of paper on the table and slides it across to Aramis. He can read the words, and that still sends a quick rush of pride through him. 

“These are directions?”

“Yes.”

“To what?” 

“Why don’t Athos and I go over with you after we finish our meal?” He checks the length of the shadows on the ground. “That should be a good time.”

They talk as they eat. There are fried balls of dough and yoghurt with honey as Porthos and Athos talk about whether or not Hayam has started favoring one of her back legs. Aramis dips bread into a bowl of rabbit stew as he talks about the new books that ibn al Mutran sent back to the hospital earlier in the week. To any casual observer they are just three friends having a meal, there’s no outward indication that Aramis might know what the other two look like as they come. He hopes they can keep it that way.

 

The walk through the streets of Damascus is a pleasant change. Usually he’s out here alone and Porthos and Athos are out together. It’s nice, the three of them like this. Aramis follows the directions until they find themselves in front of a stone building set apart from its neighbors and marked as different from the other buildings only by the sign on the door and unscreened windows high on the front wall.

“It's.” Aramis turns to Porthos. “A church?”

“I know it’s probably not the same as the ones you’re used to—“

“You found me a church?” Aramis is trying to keep his voice down but the weight of Athos’ hand on his shoulder says he needs to try harder.

“I thought. It’s been so long. I know you still pray. I asked Yusuf to find one that wasn’t ruined when the city last changed hands.” 

Knowing the risk, Aramis takes Porthos’ hand. “Thank you, Porthos.”  He looks up at the edifice again. “Thank you for my church.” There’s a catch in his voice and Aramis hopes neither of them can hear it. 

Porthos eases the moment with a grin and a quiet tease. “I figured, after last night, what better day for some confession?"

Athos grins at them both and Aramis wonders if he’s ever seen Athos look this _light_. He turns back to Porthos.

“You think I’m going to go in there and confess to the things we did in that room?” Aramis shakes his head and cocks his eyebrow. “Porthos, confession is for those who promise never to commit that sin again. Confession is for the repentant. I don't repent a second of my time with you both. I never could.”

Not a single second they’ve had, and not a single second of the ones he hopes are yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, I got really sick right around the new year and it's taken me a while to get the energy up to finish this chapter properly. It's done, though! And the next one is started and the next two plotted, so no more delays like that. Thank you also for the amazing comments and encouragement, you're all my treasures.


	10. twilight slept in my coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something about standing in the courtyard, watching Porthos take his first steps unaided by the crutch, that makes them all a little reckless. Aramis grips Porthos by the arms, grinning, and then hugs him tight before kissing both Porthos and Athos on the cheek. Athos lets his fingers linger at Porthos’ waist and says, “I knew you could do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks forever, for your patience.

_When I fell in love,_   
_The kingdom of the Lord changed._   
_Twilight slept in my coat,_   
_And the sun rose from the west._

-Nizar Qabbani

~

There is something about standing in the courtyard, watching Porthos take his first steps unaided by the crutch, that makes them all a little reckless. Aramis grips Porthos by the arms, grinning, and then hugs him tight before kissing both Porthos and Athos on the cheek. Athos lets his fingers linger at Porthos’ waist and says, “I knew you could do it.”

Porthos beams at them both. If Yusuf is watching from the shadows, if he’s smiling just a little, none of them see it.

Against Aramis’ objections, he takes a full lap around the courtyard. At first, he’s smiling, triumphant, but by the time he’s back to the lemon tree, Porthos’ face is gray and tight with strain, and there is sweat standing out on his forehead. Aramis tells him to sit down in the _iwan_  while Yusuf brings them water.

“Do we need to revisit the issue of letting this recovery take as long as it takes and not trying to rush it?”

Porthos wants to argue, but he’s suddenly too tired to do anything more than breathe and enjoy the weight of Aramis’ hand on his shoulder.

“If you have a setback, we’ll need to stop going to the stables for a few days,” Athos says. Porthos looks up at that, shooting Athos a look which makes it clear he sees Athos’ manipulation and is both amused and irritated by it. Athos shrugs as if to say these are just the facts.

Porthos closes his eyes to try and rally his strength for another lap. He drops his head back to rest against the wall behind him. Just a few minutes. After that, he can try another lap. He doesn’t wake up until the call for afternoon prayer. Cracking one eye open, Porthos sees Athos sitting on the couch on the opposite side of the _iwan_. Athos doesn’t look up from his book.

“Is Aramis at the hospital?”

“He is. I’ve been left with instructions to pin you down, should you attempt any strenuous exercise.” Athos’ eyes are still on the page in front of him, but Porthos can hear the laughter in his voice, and there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.

Porthos grins and stretches his arms over his head, yawning and rolling his head on his neck to loosen the stiffness of sleeping in an awkward position. Athos continues to read, or at least pretend to, while Porthos prays. It’s a small, domestic moment. Just two people, going through the motions of their lives in each other’s company. This kind of simple, peaceful happiness is something so foreign in the lives of soldiers, and Porthos knows two things about it. He knows he’s been both lucky and favored to have this moment, and others like it over the last nine months, and he knows that after they all go back to the war, it’s likely he will never have another. All that is left is to be with them as well as he can, to let them be with him, to make the most of their time.

He sits forward and pours himself some water from the jug. “You have a new book.”

“Mmm. Aramis returned some medical texts to the copyists in Ib al-Mutran’s library, and when they handed him some new ones, they put this in the stack.”

Porthos squints at the lettering on the cover. “It’s in Arabic. It’s poetry?”

Athos closes the book, his finger still marking the page. “Yes, a collection of some of your female poets.”

“Is it good?”

Pink tinges the tips of Athos’ ears. “It’s… beautiful. She’s very candid about her wants, her loves.”

“Yeah?” Porthos cherishes the moments where the light of day can make this man who is so brazen by lamplight, turn reserved. “Like what?” he asks, as though he had never heard of such a thing.

Athos cocks an eyebrow at him, but Porthos only pulls his good leg up onto the couch, rests his elbow on his knee, chin in hand, and waits.

Opening the book again, Athos flips back a few pages. His Arabic is getting so much better, even if his pace is still a little halting, as he reads the words off the page. “ _Give up, you won’t win me with kisses and embraces. Only a thrust rocks out my strains—_ “

“ _Until the ring on my toe falls in my sleeve, and my sadness flies away_.” The dimples in his cheeks deepen as Porthos flashes a grin. “I know that one.” His smile turns heated and secret as the moment between them stretches on. Athos doesn’t look away, and Porthos wonders if he knows what promises his eyes are making.

When Porthos leans forward to take his cup off the table, Athos turns his head to stare out into the courtyard. He’s studying the lemon tree and running his thumb over the pages of the book. “We had only three books in my home when I was a child. Any funds were better spent on things like horses and armor. But my mother had a prayer book, and my father had a history, the kings of England, I think. The third was a story of daring knights and dangerous battles, all told in verse.” He drops his head to stare at the roots of the tree, tracing their curves with his eyes. His voice drops as well. “My brother— In the winter, when it was so cold, we’d sit in the light from the window, pull as many blankets as we could over ourselves, and I’d read it to him.”

Turning, Athos gives Porthos a sad, resigned smile. “I’ve loved verse and poetry since then.”

“The book in your saddlebag, that was verse, too.”

Athos nods. “I wanted something—“ he runs his thumb over and over a gouge in the wood of the sofa. “It reminded me of him.”

“And you read it to us.”

“He would've liked that. He would've liked you.”

Porthos can see the sadness pulling at Athos, can see those same lines around his eyes that were there when Athos first came to Damascus. It’s physically painful to see his dry-witted, enthusiastic lover disappear behind a shroud.

“So, poetry. What else?"

Athos frowns. “What?”

“Tell me something else you love.”

A little of the fog in Athos’ eyes clears. “This is ridiculous.”

“Now it’s three things. Keep resisting, the number will just go up.”

The exasperated sigh is belied by the smile pulling at the side of his mouth. “I love to ride. Fast. The power and the… freedom. I love that.” He stops to think. “I love the sound of a forest just as dawn comes. Every noise is so clear, and you can hear the life going on around you.” Athos closes his eyes and Porthos tries to imagine the forest he's picturing.

After that, Athos is quiet. Porthos gives him time to think, but knows that given too much time, Athos will get lost in whatever memory comes after the forest. He finally reaches for the crutch Aramis left beside him on the couch. He pokes Athos in the leg. “You owe me one more thing. If you stall any longer, I’m going to add a fourth.”

His eyes, when he opens them, are bright, and clear, and Porthos sees his lover in them again. Behind those eyes, it looks like Athos is pulling his thoughts together. Porthos doesn’t say another word, he just waits.

“You,” Athos says, finally. “And Aramis.” His knuckles are white where he’s still gripping the book, but there isn’t any doubt in his voice. “That’s four things.”

In the few seconds after Athos stops talking, Porthos hears everything around him so clearly. There is the scratch of birds on the roof and a hum of bees in the lemon tree. The door to the street opens and closes. It's the metallic clang of the door latch falling into place that breaks his trance. Porthos opens his mouth to say something, anything. He’s not even sure what is going to come out, but he can’t let the silence go on any longer.

Whatever the words might have been, they’re cut off by Aramis walking into the courtyard. “Good! I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to see you in the same spot I left you.”

Just then, Yusuf comes into the courtyard and lays the first tray of the midday meal on the table in the _iwan_. Athos blinks, and it’s like the last five minutes never happened. “He’s been forcing me to read him lewd poetry.”

“Which, I suppose, doesn’t violate my instructions for ’no strenuous activities.’”

“Forcing you? I haven’t been _forcing_  you. Aramis, you’re not going to believe him, are you?”

Aramis doesn’t take the bait. “Ibn al-Mutran is in the city for a few days. He’d like to check your progress. If you’re feeling up to it, we could go to the hospital in the morning?”

“All of us?” Porthos knows there’s no reason, strictly speaking, why Athos needs to come, but he loves the opportunities they have to be together, all of them.

“Of course! The more Athos knows about your treatment, the better he can help when I’m not around. And the more likely he’ll rethink going to the stables so often.”

They both turn to look at Athos, and Porthos is surprised by the softness of the smile on Athos’ face.

“I’d like that. I’d like to see the place where you spend your days.”

Aramis’ smile is sunshine through the trees, but as glad as Porthos is to see that smile, he grieves a little for a moment lost.

 

The afternoon is like so many before it, reading and talking and Aramis’ stories from the hospital. Aramis and Athos have been practicing their writing, so they take some time to let Porthos look it over and offer help. Porthos tries to ignore the feeling of a current between himself and Athos because there’s nothing they can do about it right now. Aramis needs to be part of this conversation, and they all deserve to have it where no one can see.

They might not have forever, but Porthos figures they can all wait a few hours. It’s worth it to say it without fear, like Athos did.

After the evening prayers, they follow Porthos up to his room. Athos is first through the door, he sits on the bed and picks up the book Porthos had given him. They’ve been teasing it out, one poem each night, two if they are feeling indulgent. For the past few nights, Athos would read it while Porthos and Aramis marched their pieces across the board, and afterward, they’d talk about the words and what they mean.

Tonight, Porthos follows Athos inside, with Aramis right behind them. His feet are barely over the threshold before Aramis pushes the door closed behind him, the sound of the latch catching echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“Are you hurt?” Aramis asks. He’s looking over Porthos’ body, cataloging all the parts he can see and taking note of how they look.

“What?” Physically, Porthos feels the same as he’s felt all week. Irritated at not being back to his full strength, but not in actual pain.

“You’ve been quiet from the moment Yusuf cleared the plates from the midday meal. Half the time you’ve been frowning and the other half you’ve barely been in the same place as us. Patients get that way when they’re trying to hide pain.” His hands are on Porthos’ face. “Are you still tired from the effort this morning?"

Porthos shakes his head, and Aramis’ hands slip away. Immediately, Porthos misses the warmth of them against his skin. He wants to pull Aramis close and feel those arms slide around him again. From his spot on the bed, Athos props himself up on one elbow to watch. Aramis steps away from Porthos, and his voice is a halting rasp. “We’ll let you get to bed early tonight. Come on, Athos.”

Athos doesn’t move, but Porthos can watch it play out on his face. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but it hurts to watch Aramis wind himself into knots for no reason. “He’s fine, Aramis. Just distracted.”

“Distracted? Did something happen?” Looking back and forth between them, Aramis’ eyes are wide and bright with worry.

“Not like you’re thinking.” Athos rubs his thumb along his lower lip. “We had a conversation earlier, before you came home. I suspect he’s still turning it over in his mind.”

“What sort of conversation?”

Athos doesn’t answer. Porthos looks at him, meets his eyes, and in them, he sees exactly what Athos is doing. He’s said enough to ease Aramis’ mind, but still left room for Porthos to fill in the space as he chooses. Porthos has an out. If he doesn’t feel the same way, if all he wants is to keep having nights filled with slick skin and gripping fingers and the feel of each others release across their skin, with no hearts involved? Athos has left him an escape route.

“Porthos?” Aramis isn’t going to let this go.

“We were— Athos was talking about… about things he loves.”

Aramis is still. “And what does Athos love?”

“Riding,” Athos says. “And poetry.”

“You keep giving me a chance to brush it off like it never happened. I don’t need that chance, Athos. I don’t want it.” Porthos flicks his eyes to look at Aramis. “Us. He loves us.”

Aramis looks back and forth between them. “And how did you respond to that?”

“Didn’t have time. You got home, and then there were other people around.”

Aramis swallows. “You can answer now. I’ll leave, if you’d like, so you two can talk.”

Porthos reaches out and grips Aramis’ wrist.

“D'you still think any part of this is only between two of us? Because that’s what it means. If you leave right now, that’s what it means.”

Aramis swallows and shakes his head. “I’ll stay,” he says. He grips Porthos wrist in return. “I’ll stay.”

“And you,” Porthos’ look pins Athos to the bed. “You think I didn’t want to answer you as soon as you said it? You think I didn’t want to grab you and kiss you until you didn’t have any doubt? Didn’t want to shout how much I love you so loud they could hear me out in the street? How much I love you both?”

Dawn breaks across Aramis’ face. His hands fly up to clutch at Porthos’ cheeks and hold him still while Aramis kisses him again and again and again. “You. I,” he says between kisses. “I love you. So much. Love you so much.” He buries his nose in Porthos’ neck. “It’s reckless and dangerous, and I still love you so much.”

Porthos drops his crutch and pulls Aramis tighter against him. He's solid and warm, so warm. The flesh of Aramis’ back dimples as Porthos digs his fingers in and tilts his head for a kiss. If Athos is still watching from the bed, Porthos knows he can see the moment of release and the curve of Aramis’ neck as he opens under Porthos’ mouth.

Aramis breaks off the kiss long before Porthos is ready, and Porthos hopes neither of them hears his low rumbled growl as he resists the urge to pull his lover close again.

“I wish I’d said it sooner,” Aramis says as he strokes his thumb along Porthos’ jawline, his nail scratching Porthos’ beard. He turns in Porthos' arms so he can meet Athos' eyes. When Aramis doesn't speak right away, Porthos looks at Athos to see why.

“You look like… like you’re trying to be ready for anything Aramis says. You see the way he’s looking at you, Athos? Really look at him, and tell me how you can think the answer is anything but love."

Athos tilts his head to the side, and the lift of his eyebrows is all the question Aramis needs.

“You are— How are you always so brave?”

It’s a lucky thing that Aramis doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, because Athos opens his mouth and at first, no words come.

“It didn’t feel brave,” he says,s at last. “It felt like going any longer without saying it—“

“Would be lying,” Aramis says, and Athos nods. Tugging at Porthos’ arms, Aramis pulls free and crosses the room. He crouches just a little next to the bed so that he’s looking straight into Athos’ eyes. “You opened yourself up for whatever reaction he had. You decided that staying honest with us — I’m assuming you meant to tell me soon, too?” Athos nods. “Staying honest with us was more important than keeping your own heart safe from risk.”

Porthos watches as Aramis’ hand reaches out to cover Athos’. Dropping his head, Athos is looking at the spot where their fingers are entwined around the spine of the book. “How,” Aramis says, and Athos looks up at him again. “How do you not see the bravery in that?"

“I love you,” Athos says, and Porthos knows if there had been the slightest noise in the room he’d have missed those words.

“I’m so glad to hear that. I would have hated to be alone in my affections.” He stands from the crouch and puts his hands on the bed, leaning forward until he’s barely a breath from Athos’ mouth. “I love you.”

Porthos watches them fall upon each other as he shuffles his way across the room, trying not to put too much weight on his bad leg. He sinks onto the bed beside Athos just in time for them to come up for air. Aramis kneels on the bed and leans over Athos to kiss Porthos and Porthos feels that same settling in his heart he always feels when kissing Aramis. Sometimes it’s passionate, sometimes it’s gentle, but it always brings him a kind of peace. He cups Aramis’ face and chuckles into the kiss as Aramis groans and arches into him.

Trying to keep his balance, Aramis’ forearm brushes across Porthos’ cock. It’s already half-hard from watching Aramis and Athos kiss and thinking about how much he loves them. At the touch of Aramis’ arm, it twitches and grows harder.

Aramis grins at him. “Is that so?”

Porthos cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Are you _sure_  you want this?” Aramis’ voice is laughing. "It’s been a long day, and I know you’re probably tired and—“

He’s startled out of his teasing when Porthos grabs his hand and brings it down to his groin. Aramis laughs, so open and easy, and that only makes Porthos harder.

“I _always_  want this, Aramis. Even when you’re describing surgical procedures, or when you’ve spilled yogurt down your tunic. Short of the grave, there’s never gonna be a time outside of prayer when I don’t want one or both of touching me.”

Aramis turns his wrist until he’s at an angle where he can move. He starts to grip and release Porthos through his breeches. “So, tomorrow, when we’re in the hospital and al-Mutran is checking your leg. You’ll want this then?”

Porthos groans and tries to rock up into the touch. “Even then.”

Aramis crawls the rest of the way over Athos’ legs and kneels on the bed between the two of them. The heat of his touch when he slips his hand into Porthos’ breeches makes Porthos gasp.

“At the stable, when d’Artagnan is trying to talk to you about the differences in saddles? You’ll want Athos touching you?”

Feeling the grind of his teeth against each other as he clenches his jaw, Porthos bucks up into Aramis’ fist again and again. “Yeah, then too.” He grunts when Aramis’ grip tightens past the point of pleasure.

“Every time you roll up into me, you’re using your thighs. You’ve done that enough today. If you can’t keep still, I’m going to have Athos tie you to the bed.”

Porthos groans and his cock jerks in Aramis’ grip. The way Aramis’ eyes narrow isn’t enough to hide the wicked gleam. “Oh, really? Don’t try to hide that look, I saw that.” He tosses the next words over his shoulder. “Athos, make a note of that for later.”

Rolling his head until he can meet Athos’ eyes, Porthos sees an expression of heat that he’s sure matches his own.

Aramis loosens his grip, brushes his fingers over Porthos’ balls, and starts stroking him again, firmer this time, and faster.

He spends the next few minutes naming increasingly ridiculous times and places to be thinking about them touching him, and every time, Porthos agrees. In the market haggling for spices? Yes, then too. Helping Aramis translate the words for all the parts of the human eye? Somehow, even then. While talking to Hamid about what the cook is planning for meals this week? Nothing on earth could make him actually do that in front of Hamid, but yes, absolutely yes, he’ll still wish they could be touching him.

His words are getting more desperate with every answer, so it surprises no one when he finally comes, pulsing into the cup of Aramis’ palm over the head of his cock.

“While translating medical texts? Porthos I had no idea you were such a degenerate.”

Porthos stares at him, one eyebrow up.

Aramis laughs again, and Porthos can’t help but respond in kind. They kiss, smiling so much their mouths barely close each time they touch. Reaching out, Porthos tugs Athos over by his shirt. He kisses each of them and Porthos feels the joy in it.

“Scoot down in the bed,” Aramis says as he’s reaching for a cloth on the table by the bed. He wipes his hands clean before bending over Porthos, putting one hand on either side of his chest to brace himself. “I love that you can make me laugh even as you’re spilling all over my wrist.”

Stroking the side of Aramis’ face, Porthos takes a moment to feel blessed to have these men. “Your laugh is the first thing I loved about you.”

For a second there’s a look of helpless joy across Aramis’ face, but it’s soon replaced by amused indignation. “Not for my irresistible good looks? For my sparkling wit?”

Across the bed, Athos snorts and even though his eyes are drooping so low in sleep that he can’t actually see, Porthos knows that Athos is rolling his eyes as well.

“Love when you touch me like that. It always reminds me of the first night.” He could go on and on, spending hours telling them both how loved they make him feel, but Aramis fingers settle over his mouth.

“Be still, rest, Athos, and I will give you something to enjoy.” Aramis winks and Porthos can feel himself clawing to stay awake.

He succeeds long enough to see Aramis drop the soiled cloth back on the table and undress Athos while telling him how tempted he was to do this very thing while they were having their morning meal. Athos, he says, is sometimes still soft with sleep when he comes to the table and Aramis always wants to drag him right back to bed.

Porthos smiles at the memory of Athos this morning, thanking Yusuf for the food with the creases of his bedding still imprinted on his cheek. He closes his eyes. _Just for a second, just to make the memory clearer_ , and he’s asleep before he can open them again.

 

When he blinks awake, who knows how much later, Porthos can hear whispers and the shuffling of fabric. Rolling his head enough that he can see next to him, Porthos feels his mouth go dry. Less than an arm’s length away from him, Athos and Aramis are both unclothed. _I wanted to watch that happen_ , Porthos thinks, but wipes that thought away so he can concentrate on what’s in front of his eyes.

Kneeling between Aramis’ legs, Athos is stretched out over him. The lamplight dances in the shape of the muscles on Athos’ back. Athos has his forehead pressed to Aramis’, his eyes closed tight and his mouth open. He’s braced on one arm, and the hairs around his face are curling with sweat. Porthos follows one drop of it as it falls from Athos’ neck and runs down Aramis’ shoulder.

He’s splayed out under Athos, legs dropped open, and there’s a sheen over every inch of his skin. Eyes wide open, locked on Athos’ face, Aramis is using one hand to trace the line of Athos’ jaw and cup the muscles in his shoulders.

Aramis squirms and as Porthos’ eyes follow the roll of his body he realizes what they’re doing. The hand that isn’t stroking Athos’ face is wrapped around Athos’ cock, stroking it so, so slowly. Athos is holding Aramis tighter, but not stroking at all. The tendons in Athos’ wrist are standing out, and above the circle of his fist, the head of Aramis’ cock is slick and deep red where the foreskin has pulled back.

Every roll of Aramis’ body is an attempt to slide further through Athos’ grip. Athos is making him fuck himself, and Aramis is doing exactly that. Their voices are so hushed, they must be trying to be quiet for him, to let him sleep, but Porthos can still make out the words.

“So tight,” Aramis says. “It’s perfect, you know just how I want it. How are you like this with me but so gentle with him?”

“Because you’re two different men, Aramis. And only one of you is recovering from a serious injury.” His tone is dry even as he’s gasping and rolling his forehead against Aramis’. “He needs gentleness right now.”

There’s a flash of white as Aramis grins. He twists his wrist and strokes Athos fast for a few seconds, long enough to make Athos gasp and nearly collapse. When he slows again, Athos groans, frustrated and low.

“He needs gentleness for his recovery, but you’ll help him haul himself clear across the city to spend the day with d’Artagnan and the horses?”

“I… please, faster.” Aramis’ hand doesn’t speed up at all. “It’s hardly the same, he has the cart or his crutch. What we do here. What we do here is different.” Rewarding him, Aramis strokes just a little faster, pausing a little at the end of each downstroke to let Athos thrust his hips forward, pushing his cock further into Aramis’ hand. “It certainly can’t help, it must put a strain. I don’t want—.“

He breaks off and takes a few deep, panting breaths, swiping his thumb over the head of Aramis’ cock just to watch Aramis rock himself up again. Porthos wants to be closer to them. He wants to be on his side, watching every breath they each take. He wants to be able to taste the sweat that’s pooling in the small of Athos’ back.

Aramis laughs, but the end is muffled as Athos tilts his head to kiss him. His fist in Athos’ hair, Aramis pulls him back, meeting his eyes. “He can take it, I promise.”

A frown creases Athos’ forehead, and Porthos wants to rub it away with his thumb.

“I distinctly remember you telling him to be still earlier.”

“You remember me saying I’d tie him down.”

Athos huffs a laugh. “I can hardly be expected to forget that.”

“Only for today. After he pushed too hard this morning. Most nights he’s only been out to the stables, and his body is accustomed to that.” Arching up, Aramis kisses him, deep and dirty.

Athos closes his eyes again, sinking into the kiss, and moaning at the unending stroke of Aramis’ hand.

“I promise you, Athos. One night I’m going to show you, as clearly as I possibly can, how many things you can do to Porthos’ body, how much—“ he licks his top lip, “—strain he can take without risking his rehabilitation.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Porthos says. Both of them freeze, staring at him. Aramis shakes it off first. He smiles, and it’s like he’s seeing Porthos for the first time after years apart.

“I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

Aramis grins. “Not a bit.”

“Then why’d you stop?” He flicks his gaze down to where their hands are perfectly still around each other.

Laughing, Aramis turns back to Athos, arching up for another kiss and starting that slow, torturous stroke again. “I love you,” he says, and Athos smiles back.

Porthos stretches his arm out and strokes the back of his knuckles down Athos’ arm. “We both do.”

“So much.” Aramis speeds up his stroke. “So much."

There’s a sound from Athos that’s a laugh and a sob all at once. He drops his forehead to Aramis’ again, squeezes his eyes tight shut and goes completely silent as he comes, striping Aramis’ chest. Aramis moans as he feels it hit him, feels the heat of it against his skin. He kisses every part of Athos’ face he can reach.

When Athos opens his eyes again, and his breathing starts to return to normal, he gives Aramis another of those laughing, smiling kisses. Aramis swipes his tongue over his own hand, cleaning every trace of Athos off of it, then reaches out and twines his fingers with Porthos’.

“Is it Aramis’ turn now?” Porthos asks. Athos shrugs.

“If he wants it, he’s welcome to take it.”

Porthos’ quiet laugh is still enough to warm them all. He can feel Aramis squeezing, twisting their fingers even tighter together. The roll of Aramis’ body starts again as he thrusts himself up into Athos’ grip.

Porthos feels his mouth go dry at the way Aramis’ muscles bunch and loosen. Athos is staring down the length of their bodies, watching Aramis’ cock push through his hand over and over.

“You don’t think you should help him out?” Porthos isn’t even trying to keep the laughter out of his voice.

Athos turns to him. “Are you saying you would _not_  like to see him fuck himself with my hand until he hasn’t got a single thought in his head but how good it feels?” Aramis groan is strangled, and his hips speed up. “Because if you’re not interested in seeing how badly he wants this, I’m happy to let go.”

Aramis clutches at Athos’ arm. “You wouldn’t!”

He cocks a knowing eyebrow at Porthos, but the smile that curls Athos’ mouth when he looks back down at Aramis is tender and private, at odds with the way he’s moved his thumb so that it strokes over the slit in Aramis’ cock every time Aramis moves. “Not to you,” Athos says. "Not tonight.”

“So you’ll be cruel some other night?” Porthos asks.

“As cruel as he wants.”

Aramis hisses, slamming his eyes shut and clenching his jaw, and it looks like he’s fucking Athos’ fist with every bit of strength and speed he has. _How long can he keep up that pace?_  Porthos wonders, but the question is purely academic. In less than a minute, Aramis’ come is spilling onto his own belly.

Finally, after longer than either Athos or Porthos would have expected, Aramis’ jaw loosens, and he opens his eyes again. He’s blinking, wide and amazed, and trying to calm his breathing. Athos kisses his forehead and collapses onto the bed beside him, one hand cupping Aramis’ shoulder.

Tentatively, Aramis touches a spot in the cradle of his hips where his own release has mixed with Athos’. He sighs, pleased and sated.

“If I weren’t so tired, I’d come over there and lick that clean.”

Laughing, Aramis turns his head to face Porthos. “Next time. I promise I’ll remind you.”

“I love you,” Porthos says, and as his eyes sag, he can hear each of them say it back to him before saying it to each other. In the morning, Porthos will be glad this is where he falls asleep, because he’s not sure how he would ever have let them leave if he’d still been awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poet Athos and Porthos quote near the beginning is Dahna bint Mas-hal. She wrote during the Umayyad period, right around the year 700. I came across that poem when I was first imagining this story, and I knew it had to go in. 
> 
> This chapter was meant to be longer, but I wanted to get something out before I became subsumed with work and summer camps and all the silly requirements of actual life. The rest is outlined and partially written, so my hope is to get it up next weekend. If you liked it, drop me a comment and let me know, or come see me over at [my tumblr](https://werebearbearbar.tumblr.com). Acre's coming y'all, buckle up.


	11. in the kitchen: a moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is getting expensive.

Hamid holds the little pot in his hand, stares at it, and thinks about his past.

He wasn’t always a member of Porthos’ household, didn’t always call Damascus home. The years of his boyhood were spent chasing his brothers through one back street or another of Acre, and when he was old enough, he followed those same brothers into battle.

In Acre, Hamid saw the busy whirl of life around him, but the army taught him to study, to watch and see everything he could. There were many years when the ability to catch a movement out of the corner of his eye had kept Hamid and his brothers alive another day. 

Which is why Hamid is both irritated and insulted that these men, these three grown men who have been carrying on like this for months, seem to think they’re hiding something from him. His years of fighting may be behind him, but Hamid’s mind is still a soldier’s mind. That training is still there. He still _sees._  

He sees the way Porthos sometimes strokes Aramis’ hair, and the way Athos will brace himself on Porthos’ shoulder as he stands. He sees the sly brushes of hand against hand as they read together in the garden.

He sees the amount of sandalwood oil in this pot drop night after night.

Somehow, it’s the dangerous, reckless touches, the truth Hamid sees in them, and in the way the three of them look at each other, that makes him trust Aramis and Athos in spite of everything. 

There is no outcome for this thing between the three of them that isn’t filled with loss and pain. They know it. Hamid knows it. Still, they’re soldiers. They've learned how to study the risks and judge the chances of failure. They understand how to decide for themselves what victory, what joy, is worth what cost.

Hamid refills the little pot again and tucks it into his pocket. Later today, like yesterday and the day before, he’ll go up to Porthos’ rooms, he’ll slip the pot back onto the table by the bed, and he’ll keep this secret a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first bit of the next chapter is going up in about ten minutes, as soon as I can get the formatting done, but this little moment with Hamid deserved a post of its own. It's hard to be Hamid, y'all, looking out for these idiots all the time. Plus, sandalwood oil is expensive. He's switching them over to almond oil next week.


	12. one who resides in my blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis says no.
> 
> Porthos promises he's feeling stronger.
> 
> Aramis still says no.
> 
> Lying on the long couch in the iwan, Athos is watching their back and forth. Aramis is all reason; Porthos is all dimples and charm. Athos pulls another seed from a pomegranate and waits for one of them to out-stubborn the other.
> 
> Aramis refuses to let Porthos walk to the hospital without his crutch. Yesterday morning had been a success, but Porthos' long rest afterwards showed just how much that success had cost him. There's no way Aramis will go to his mentor with Porthos gray from exhaustion.
> 
> "I don't care what damage you do to yourself," Aramis says, in a tone Athos knows means he cares very, very much. "But you're not doing anything that makes me look like a bad doctor. Not while I have any say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is either the first half of a monster chapter, or the first in a pair of shorter chapters. Either way, the other half is coming tomorrow or the day after. Notes at the end.

_And how can I erase you from my memory's papers?_

_When in my heart you're like engraving in stone._

_I love you, one resides in my blood,_

_whether you were in China or you were on the moon._

\- Nizar Qabbani

~

Aramis says no.

Porthos promises he's feeling stronger.

Aramis still says no.

Lying on the long couch in the _iwan_ , Athos is watching their back and forth. Aramis is all reason; Porthos is all dimples and charm. Athos pulls another seed from a pomegranate and waits for one of them to out-stubborn the other.

Aramis refuses to let Porthos walk to the hospital without his crutch. Yesterday morning had been a success, but Porthos' long rest afterwards showed just how much that success had cost him. There's no way Aramis will go to his mentor with Porthos gray from exhaustion.

"I don't care what damage you do to yourself," Aramis says, in a tone Athos knows means he cares very, very much. "But you're not doing anything that makes me look like a bad doctor. Not while I have any say."

"Truly, a selfless caregiver," Athos says. "Unfortunately, Porthos, it appears you are outnumbered."

Over their morning meal, Porthos had told Hamid they planned to head to the hospital after midday prayers. Right on time, Hamid is approaching the _iwan_ , crutch in hand.

Porthos frowns as he takes the crutch and stands. "Sometimes, Hamid, you can be _too_  helpful."

"Or possibly he wants you to continue to improve instead of sliding backward because you push too hard." Aramis' expression isn't quite smug, but it's close. "Thank you, Hamid. Are there any concerns in particular you want me to address with my teacher?"

Hamid's eyes flicker, and Athos sees mostly surprise, with only a hint of the old distrust. Aramis' answering look is a kind of carefully bland attentiveness, It's been no secret that Hamid is wary of their presence and their motives.

"I would only ask that you confirm with him that my lord is getting enough rest at night."

Hamid stares at Aramis, and Aramis stares back without blinking. Athos wonders how long Hamid has known.

While he might not approve, it seems Hamid is prepared to not disapprove-not actively anyway-as long as nothing they do endangers Porthos' wellbeing. As long as Aramis always puts Porthos' needs above his own base desires.

Aramis inclines his head slightly. "I'll ask him what he thinks the right amount would be, and I'll make sure, as his physician, that Porthos gets at least that much."

Hamid jerks a nod and steps back, leaving Porthos resting on his crutch.

Athos pushes open the door between the courtyard and the entrance hall, and waves Aramis and Porthos through, casting a quick look back before he follows them. Hamid is standing in a spot of sunlight, one hand in his pocket, the around him thick with the shadows of everything that just went unsaid.

 

They've walked past it a few times, so Athos is familiar with the strange red dome over the entranceway to the Bimaristan al-Nuri. He's seen the intricate carving and inlay on the door. What he hasn't seen is the way that the brick of the dome is laid to allow shafts of light to pierce the interior, and pour down into the entrance hall. He's still standing, staring up at it when Porthos tugs at his sleeve.

Aramis is halfway across the courtyard, but they take their time catching up. For the moment, Porthos is the perfect patient, moving slow and steady, and Athos would tease him about it, were it not for the fact that he's sure Porthos is doing it so that Athos can look around.

The four _iwans_  around the central courtyard are each unique. The one just past door to the street is decorated with paintings of peacocks and flowers and intricate calligraphy that Athos wants to stare at and translate. The twist he feels in his belly is envy because as much as he's loved his mornings with Porthos, he wishes he'd spent a few here with Aramis.

"When we're finished talking to al-Mutran, I might ask Aramis for the grand tour. I've never been here when I was well enough to look around and appreciate it," Porthos says, and Athos tightens his grip on Porthos' elbow to keep from kissing him right here in front of everyone, in broad daylight.

As they approach, Aramis is already in the midst of his summary of Porthos' recovery.

"Despite my early concerns, it appears the trips to the stable were helpful. Porthos was able to move around, and I think it kept him from brooding too much."

"Hey! I don't brood. And the horses needed-"

"No, they didn't, Porthos. You know it, and I know it. The stable master is more than capable and well paid. You just wanted to get out past your own walls, and you wanted to take treats to your incredibly spoiled Hayam." Aramis straightens his leather vest. "And don't pretend it wasn't entertaining to watch me get irritated." Athos raises an eyebrow as Porthos opens his mouth to protest.

Porthos smirks instead. "It's hardly my fault your voice goes up like that when you're carrying on about restrictions and timelines."

The sound of al-Mutran clearing his throat reminds Athos that they are not alone, bickering as foreplay. Judging by the color on his cheeks, Aramis has just realized this as well.

Waving for them to follow, al-Mutran leads them through a door beside the east _iwan_  into a marble-floored room with high windows of pierced stucco. The designs in the stone decorate the floor as the sun shines through them and Athos' heart aches with the almost casual stunning beauty of this city.

The room must usually be used for this kind of patient examination because there's already a table in the center of the room big enough for Porthos to lie flat. Porthos takes his belt off and unties his breeches before stretching out on the table. He raises his hips up so Aramis can tug the breeches down past his thighs. Athos can see Aramis working to make this seem like something he doesn't do so often that these days he can do it without even interrupting the kissing.

Pulling the leg of Porthos' braies high on his thigh, Aramis shows al-Mutran the scar and talks about how the healing has gone.

"There wasn't much success with teas or tinctures to help with the pain. In the end, we would just try to keep busy enough that there wasn't time to focus on it. That's part of the reason I didn't protest the trips to the stables as much as I might have."

Athos reaches up to cover his smile by scratching his beard.

With his finger just above Porthos' skin, Aramis describes the places there had been lingering soreness. "I think from time to time there's still pain, but it's more of an ache from overuse than the sharper feeling I'd expect from something being torn or being re-injured."

Looking up at Aramis, al-Mutran nods and asks about setbacks. Distracted, Aramis rests the tips of his fingers against Porthos' thigh, and Athos can see the muscle jump under the touch. He looks up at Porthos' face, and Porthos stares back. Athos can make out the almost amused dismay in Porthos' eyes, and the tightness around his mouth that always comes when he's feeling helpless. Athos smiles at him, he can't help himself, and after a quick flick of his eyes to make sure that al-Mutran has turned toward Aramis enough that he can't see Athos' face, Athos mouths those words still so new that saying them feels like mounting a half-wild horse.

Porthos' face breaks into a grin, and he forms the words with his own mouth so perfectly that Athos can almost hear 'I love you, too' being whispered into his ear.

Aramis' hand slides across Porthos' belly, tracing up his ribcage on the far side. Porthos is surprised enough by the touch that his eyes go wide as he stares at Athos and Athos has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the laugh inside.

"Over here, we had the compensating muscle strain you warned me about. He'd been trying to move around in the bed, lifting and pushing his weight around using just his arms and back. Just like you said, there was an overuse injury, but the massage you suggested was really quite helpful. We were able to repeat that treatment a few times as needed."

His eyes are clenched shut, and there's a deep crease between Porthos' eyebrows. Athos can almost hear Porthos willing his cock into submission, trying to push back the memories of those early touches and all the later embraces they made possible.

Athos loves watching Aramis in his element, but watching him use it to torment Porthos is somehow even better. "While we haven't had to recently," Aramis says, "I am almost certain that with the latest developments, the same treatment will be called for again soon."

Porthos takes a slow, deep breath in through his nose, and Athos hopes that his cough covers his amused snort. It doesn't, apparently, because Porthos whips his head around and glares at him. Athos drops his hand so that Porthos can see the smile curling up the corners of his mouth and gives a little apologetic shrug. He's not sure which one of them will be the target of Porthos' retribution first, but Athos can't bring himself to do anything but look forward to it.

"You've listened to your physician, Porthos," al-Mutran says, equal parts surprised and proud. "Most soldiers would have tried to mount a horse two weeks later, and they'd have crippled themselves permanently. Were it in my power, I would reward you handsomely."

Athos knows he must have imagined the little flick of a glance al-Mutran gives Aramis at the word 'handsomely,' because the alternative is that they are fooling no one, and that could get them killed.

Tapping his thin upper lip with one long, elegant finger, al-Mutran hums. "Perhaps it is in my power. To a degree." He turns a warm, almost paternal smile on Porthos. "I think, if you feel up to it later, you might want to see if your horse has the patience to retrain you to ride her." Porthos opens his mouth to speak, but al-Mutran raises a hand. "As long as it's acceptable to your physician." He turns to Aramis and smiles before respectfully inclining his head just a bit.

Aramis thinks about it. He's actually physically stroking his beard as he ponders, and Athos is prepared to find it miraculous that Porthos has the patience for this, except just then Porthos reaches out with one hand and smacks Aramis on the shoulder.

"Aramis! Let me ride my horse!"

Laughing, Aramis rubs at his shoulder. "After you wound me?" He sighs. "Oh, alright, of course, you can ride your horse. I'm coming, though. Just to keep an eye on you."

More likely to keep both eyes on him, Athos thinks. Both eyes locked on Porthos' thighs as they flex against the saddle, and Aramis remembers how they feel under his hands. Athos can't blame him.

"Not today, though," al-Mutran says. "Get a little more rest, and try another walk without the crutch in the evening. When you can walk without the crutch and not need to rest right after, you can try then." He gives Aramis a few more tips on things to watch for and what they can do to keep Porthos from re-injuring himself, and then turns back to Porthos. "Are you returning home now?"

Aramis answers him. "No, Teacher. Athos has never been here, and Porthos has only seen the hospital as a patient. I said I would show them around the bimaristan, as it's been a bit of a second home to me since I came to Damascus." He pauses and worries at his lower lip with his teeth. "Well, third home, I suppose."

"Excellent plan, and I'm glad you've felt so welcome here. I'll ask the apothecary to set aside some of that tincture I mentioned, come see me before you leave and I'll make sure you get it."

 

For almost an hour, the three of them sit at the edge of the pool in the middle of the courtyard while Aramis tells them about the building. He describes the lecture sessions in the large eastern _iwan_. The arch-ceilinged nook is large enough for twenty students to sit comfortably, thirty sometimes, if the speaker is good and the students don't mind being close. There are huge, glass-doored bookcases in all three walls of the _iwan_ , and Aramis says that sometimes if the speaker is dull, he'll memorize the names of books he wants to borrow from al-Mutran's library.

Athos' eyes trace over everything as Aramis describes it. There are smaller _iwans_  to the north and south, each of the alcoves big enough for a handful of students and a couple of teachers. Here, Aramis says, there are specialized lectures and demonstrations, or just time to sit.

"All four corners have communal rooms for patients, and there are more rooms for examinations like the one we were just in." Aramis stretches his legs out in front of him and turns his face up to the sun. "My favorite room is the pharmacy, off the entrance hall. There are plants and tinctures there I've never even heard of. To me, it's like a treasure room." He cracks one eye open and casts a sidelong glance at Porthos. "Or it would be, if it didn't smell."

"Well, you didn't suffer for nothing." Porthos looks down at his feet, scratches at the side of his nose. Athos takes a second to adore the shape of Porthos' nose before Porthos continues. "There were times, in the beginning…" Athos knows what he means; they all do.

"With my skills and your stubbornness?" Aramis waves away Porthos' fears. "I never doubted for a second."

Porthos doesn't need to say thank you; Aramis doesn't need to hear it. They know.

A few more quiet minutes pass, a bit more discussion about the peacocks decorating the western _iwan_  and the mosaics on the walls, but it's becoming more and more clear that Porthos needs to rest.

Al-Mutran is waiting for them just outside one of the recovery wards. He embraces Porthos, giving him a fond smile.

"It's been a pleasure to see you, much more so than when we last met. I wish you luck with your riding; I know with recent developments in the war, you must be anxious to return to the field."

Aramis and Porthos go so still that Athos thinks time may have stopped. When Porthos moves again, it's to settle his shoulders more stiffly, so much more like a soldier than like Athos' teacher, or Aramis' patient, or the laughing, passionate man they both love so much. Porthos is armoring up so completely that Athos can almost smell the oil on his chainmail.

"My apologies, we've been mostly focused on my recovery. We must have missed a few things. What recent developments?"

"One of their kings-Philip, I believe-has arrived from France only this week. They say that England is on his way as well."

Athos knows that al-Mutran has been with the Sultan for months; he's seen correspondence written and battles planned. The only reason he's as casual about this as he is, must be because he knows exactly what is coming. Only a man with too much information needs to feign so much ignorance.

This, then, is where their end begins.

Athos has been trying to prepare himself for this for months, and every moment of it was a waste. He doesn't feel the pain of loss and loneliness, not yet, but he can feel the shape of the space that pain will live in, and he wonders if it will fill him so full that the only things left to him are riding, fighting, killing, grieving.

The silence is broken by al-Mutran, his hand resting on Porthos' shoulder. "Do be careful, Porthos. If you injure yourself while you're out riding, it will reflect poorly on your doctor."

Porthos molds his face into a mask of amused irritation. He speaks as though he were not already imagining how he will feel the day after this all ends. "I will be very careful. He's befriended my kitchen staff, and there's no telling what they'd do to my food if they found out I toyed with his reputation." Athos can see sharp edges around Porthos' casual, careless grin.

Looking at Aramis, al-Mutran smiles. "It has been my pleasure, knight of Saint John, to have you as a student. I doubt I will see you again before I leave, but I'll be hoping that you are kept safe, and that I might see your face again once all this is over." He takes Aramis by the shoulders and draws him close enough for them to rest their foreheads together. "If you can keep yourself alive, there is always a place for you here."

Aramis smiles and the two men share a quick, respectful hug before al-Mutran shoos them out of his hospital.

 

In the street again, they are surrounded by noise and smells and that strange, incongruous feeling when life goes on around you even as your world shifts irrevocably.

"Porthos, I'm sorry you won't get to ride today," Aramis says.

Porthos absentmindedly grips and releases his crutch. "It's fine. It's..." He trails off, letting his head drop forward and scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "I promise I won't be like this until we. Until we all go, but I think for the rest of today, I just want to be with you both. Feel us all together."

There it is, out in the open. There's the truth that their days together are numbered. Porthos can't know how many days, none of them can, and they all know there's no guarantee any of the remaining days will be quiet and empty of demands like this one.

Athos takes Porthos' elbow, standing so that only the three of them know he's doing anything other than helping the poor man with the crutch. He strokes his fingers along Porthos' forearm and smiles at them both. "We can tell Hamid that the trip was tiring, and he can send Yusuf to your room with food."

Porthos' face sags in relief. "Yeah. That'd be perfect." He drops his face, his mouth invisible to passers-by, his voice audible only to them. "I love you both."

It's not a lie when they tell Hamid that Porthos is exhausted from the visit. When the immediate rush of panic and loss at the thought of the three of them parting leaves him, Porthos can barely keep his eyes open.

Yusuf does bring food, trays of it, and drinks as well, but Porthos doesn't wake for any of it. Athos pulls a chair next to Aramis' at the table and tries, again, to teach him to play chess.

 

Porthos sleeps through the call to afternoon prayer and the first call of the evening as well. When the shadows of the late-spring afternoon start to stretch across the floor, Athos stands to stretch and puts his hand against Porthos' forehead.

"Is he warm?"

Athos shakes his head. "No."

"Cold? Clammy?"

"No. He's just sleeping."

"I'm-" Aramis doesn't finish, but Athos can hear in Aramis' tone an echo of his own thoughts.

_I'm going to miss him. I'm going to miss this place. I'm going to miss us. I'm never going to forget this. I'm never going to love anyone like I love the two of you._

Athos reaches back with the hand not touching Porthos' face, and he feels Aramis' fingers slip between his. "I know," Athos says.

Porthos stirs not long after. He stretches out in the bed and reaches one hand across the sheets like he's searching for one of them. When he doesn't find anything but fabric, he frowns, eyes still closed, and his face falls.

"Oh good," Aramis says. "You're alive."

Porthos' smile starts before he even opens his eyes, and when he turns to face them, the full force of it hits Athos squarely in the chest. He knows, without a hint of doubt, that he'll go to his grave with the image of that smile in his mind.

"If you're not dead, you might as well have some food before Yusuf comes back. He always makes that face when he thinks you're not eating enough. It's terrible. He looks so wounded. Or worse, he'll wonder how we managed to distract you, and I'd rather not answer that question." Aramis fusses with the chess pieces, rearranging them to starting positions as if somehow that will make Athos forget that Aramis was losing.

"It would come from Hamid, more likely," Athos says.

Aramis flashes a grin at him. "You caught that, too?"

"If you caught it, that's because Hamid wanted you to know. He was a scout, a legend. Half the old guys in my unit still tell stories about him. I used to think they were more than half bullshit. Now I know better." Porthos pulls the tray of fruit and bread closer to him. "Sneaky bastard never left a trace he didn't intend to be found."

"How long do you think he's known?" Aramis asks.

Athos thinks about the great scouts he's known in his years as a soldier. "Probably before we did."

Aramis snorts, but he doesn't argue.

Their night is slow, quiet. Once Yusuf has come to take the trays of food, they know they're as safe as they can be. Aramis pulls his loose linen shirt over his head and tugs his boots off. He slips under the blanket and presses himself against Porthos' side. Athos watches Aramis tug Porthos by the beard, turning his head so that Aramis can kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Athos knows he could join them, but for now, he just wants to sit right here and watch them. There's the sound of fabric on skin as Aramis rubs his leg against Porthos', draping it over Porthos' thigh and pulling them closer together.

Half-hard in his braies, Athos watches Porthos cup Aramis' face, and draw his thumbs over Aramis' cheekbones. Porthos looks over at Athos, a question in his eyes.

"In a minute," Athos says. "I'm enjoying the show." He aims for the kind of lascivious tone that Aramis is best at, but really, he's burning this image of them into his memories. From the way Aramis kisses Porthos, the way they clutch each other, they know he's doing it.

Sucking his way off of Porthos' lower lip, Aramis turns to look at Athos and says the words that kill them all a little every time they're said out loud. "We don't have forever left." Athos is still catching his breath when Aramis continues. "But we've got long enough that we don't yet need to turn every night into a last supper. Come to bed, Athos. Come here and let me kiss you."

They sandwich Aramis between them and spend hours taking turns kissing him.

Athos puts his palm flat against Aramis' chest and kisses the skin showing in the cradle of his thumb and forefinger. "Your skin-it glows in this light."

Pulling back, Aramis smiles at him. "If I'd known you were going to move on to achingly sweet declarations like that, I'd have let you stay with being maudlin."

Cocking his right eyebrow, Athos pinches Aramis' nipple. Aramis hisses, and his eyes are wide enough to swallow Athos whole. Porthos leans forward and pulls Aramis' hair off the side of his neck, kissing his way up from Aramis' shoulder. Aramis groans and his head falls back as Porthos' arm curls around his chest. Porthos rests his hand next to Athos'.

Burying his face in Aramis' neck, Porthos just breathes him in. Athos knows that feeling, of wanting Aramis filling all of his senses.

Things could get more serious, they could strip down completely and grind into each other until Aramis is a sticky mess in the middle, but that's not what they need tonight. Instead, there is more kissing and quiet declarations in the near-dark.

Aramis and Athos doze on and off, Porthos' arm circling them both, until a sound in the courtyard wakes them all. The last lantern is out, and only the moonlight through the pierced design of the window screen gives them anything to see by.

"What was that?" Porthos is still half asleep.

"If I had to guess," Athos says, "I'd say it was Hamid dragging a chair across the stones just loud enough to wake us up."

Aramis chuckles and Athos can feel it against his chest. "That's our signal," he says, stretching over Aramis to kiss Porthos' perfect mouth.

These nights are a safe harbor for Athos. In an alchemy of lamplight and books and chess and love, this room becomes a place out of time, made for only the three of them. It's a haven of passion and laughter and acceptance, things Athos never even thought to pray for, but are now-everything.

That's why he can walk away from it every night, because if they stay hidden here, the responsibilities of their lives will come barging in soon enough to steal this peace from them. So he leaves. He hands Aramis his boots, he strokes this thumb over Porthos' eyebrow, and he walks out the door, but it never gets easier. It never will.

 

  
Porthos doesn't make it out to the stable for five more days. He spends those days getting better without the crutch. A little more distance every day, a little less help standing and sitting. He's exhausted by the end of the day, but not so tired that he doesn't want Athos and Aramis next to him.

They tell stories by lamplight, stretched out on the bed with their fingers intertwined and their skin touching. Sometimes the stories are silly ones, like Aramis talking about the things he used to do to make his mother laugh, sometimes hard ones, like Athos talking about the loss of his parents. Porthos tells them about training, about coming up as he did, a soldier from not long after he learned to walk and talk. The nights are quiet, easy.

On the fifth day, when Porthos walks from the balcony steps to the _iwan_ , he sits down on the sofa and doesn't need to stop and catch his breath. Aramis asks Yusuf to send a message to the hospital that he won't be attending today.

Athos isn't surprised. Of course, Aramis would want to be there when Porthos rides for the first time. He'll want to fuss, of course, but he'll also want to see the look on Porthos' face. Athos can't blame him-he wouldn't miss this either.

 

"You two are going to have some explaining to do." D'Artagnan's face is smiling, but there's a worried edge to his tone. The sight of Porthos handing his crutch to Athos and standing, unaided, seems to chase the worry away. "You're back on your own two feet, that's fantastic!"

Stepping forward, he gives Porthos a hug that is probably far too familiar for their relative social stations, but Porthos only clutches him in return and slaps him on the back.

"You've been missed. Both of you." d'Artagnan is staring at Porthos when he says it, but Athos doesn't miss the fleeting look in his direction, dark eyes half-hidden by his hair.

"Yes, well." Athos meets d'Artagnan's eyes and thinks how this young man will never know how much they owe him. "Perhaps today's good news will buy us some forgiveness."

"Yes?"

"Porthos has permission from his doctor to start riding again."

The smile breaks over d'Artagnan's face like a sunrise. "Porthos, that's fantastic! Why are we still standing here talking?"

D'Artagnan glances at Aramis as they walk into the stable. "I take it you're Aramis?"

"My reputation precedes me?"

"You're like a monster they use to threaten each other." He laughs and pulls his face into an approximation of Athos' 'stoic and disinterested' expression. "If you insist on pushing yourself you'll delay your recovery _and_  you'll have to deal with a disappointed Aramis."

Athos is staring at d'Artagnan, and he hopes that the smile he's fighting doesn't show on his face. There's a thump, and the smack of Porthos' hand on his back almost sends Athos stumbling forward.

"He sounds just like you."

Before Athos can give Porthos an entirely ineffectual glare, d'Artagnan speaks again. "Porthos, you're no better. Did you think I didn't hear the times you tried to convince Athos to let you walk home and just not tell Aramis?" He turns to Aramis. "I expected you to be ten feet tall with eyes like blazing coals."

"Instead, I'm just a humble phys-"

"Physician, yeah. I'm sure you are." d'Artagnan shakes his head and slides the door to the stall open. "Hayam, they've brought you a new admirer."

In the end, Hayam could take or leave Aramis. Noor likes him a bit more, leaning against him as he strokes her neck. Athos tries not to be a bit put out at Noor's fickleness. He's long-since stopped thinking of her as anything other than _his_  horse.

"You'll need a mount of your own." d'Artagnan is standing just outside Noor's stall, thumbs in his belt, drumming the fingers of his right hand against the curve of his hip.

"Zahira?" Porthos says, and d'Artagnan smiles.

He waves for Aramis to follow him.

Athos watches them walk away, their dark heads moving as they talk to each other. Aramis turns to d'Artagnan and Athos can see him grin. d'Artagnan's laugh fills the stable. It's a moment of magic, perfect just as it is, and Athos thinks he'd be trying to sear it into his memory even if they were going to stay in Damascus forever.

"Probably ought to be worried about them getting on so well," Porthos says from just behind Athos' shoulder. Athos takes a risk and slips his hand back just far enough that he can brush his fingers against Porthos'.

"Let's get the horses ready, I'll lift your saddle on." Porthos starts to protest, but Athos puts up a hand. "Just for today. You can do it yourself tomorrow. I don't want you to exhaust yourself just from hauling the tack around, not while Aramis is watching."

The laugh-lines at the corners of Porthos' eyes get deeper as he grins. "We really do threaten each other with him."

Athos rolls his eyes.

Porthos and Athos are waiting outside the back door to the stables when Aramis walks up to them, leading a mare as dark as Noor is light. The felted wool saddle pad she wears is a deep red, and as Aramis rubs the white smudge on her forehead, Athos thinks that yes, this is undoubtedly Aramis' girl.

Together, d'Artagnan and Athos help Porthos up into the saddle while Aramis holds Hayam still, stroking her neck and whispering to her until Porthos reaches down to pat her shoulder. "Stop flirting with my horse, Aramis."

He sits up again, taking the reins in his hands, and the look on his face is easier and less complicated than any Athos has seen there before. He's just happy. He's happy to be on his horse again, feeling her weight shift under him. He's happy to be in this moment, with his loves beside him, on a beautiful spring day in Damascus. The polo fields just past the stables are lush and green, and when Athos looks back to the stable door, d'Artagnan lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and smiles at them with his whole self.

It's an incredibly sedate ride. If he hadn't gone back into his office, d'Artagnan could have kept pace with them at a steady walk. Still, it's what Porthos needs, even if it's not the triumphant return he'd probably imagined. He shifts in his seat, finding the perfect position again, the right cant in his lower back, and the proper drop of his heels.

At twenty minutes, just as Porthos is getting to the point where he's not favoring his leg or frowning in concentration, Aramis presses in with his left knee and, like they've been training for this for months, Zahira turns. "That's enough for today, I think." Athos knows that Porthos wants to protest, but given the sweat on Porthos' forehead, Athos is glad he doesn't even try.

 

The trip home is slow, and Porthos uses the crutch the entire way, but Athos can see in his eyes that he's still drunk on the feeling of motion he had on Hayam's back. As they walk, Porthos peppers them with questions. Was it obvious it had been the better part of a year since he'd been on horseback? Did they see the part where he almost slipped sideways? Could they tell that Hayam was taking it easy on him and being so gentle and well-behaved?

Athos wants to tell him that every bit of hard work has paid off, every moment of frustration was worth it for the progress he's made. He wants to say how proud they are of Porthos, but Aramis does it for him.

"Given where you were when we first arrived, what you did today was extraordinary." Porthos drops his chin and pretends to adjust the cloth wrapped around the handle of his crutch. Aramis puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the sky, taking in the blue of it. "Clearly I'm an even better physician than I thought I was."

Athos smirks at Porthos as Porthos rolls his eyes.

There's a military precision in the way Porthos positions his crutch right over the top of Aramis' shoe, just where his little toe will be. When Porthos puts his weight on it, swinging his other leg forward, Aramis yelps and tries to draw back. Porthos just keeps walking. When Aramis looks to him, affronted, Athos just stares back, his eyebrows raised.

They've missed their regular mid-day meal, but Yusuf appears with trays of cold meat and cheese almost as soon as they come through the door. After they eat, Porthos stretches out on the sofa and closes his eyes. "Just for a minute," he says.

When he starts to snore, Aramis stands, smiling down at Porthos' face and not even trying to hide the softness there. Athos is glad they're alone. He can see Aramis ghost his finger over Porthos' eyebrow, feather-light and quick as a breath, hidden in the movement of him walking past Porthos on the way to the stairs.

He's back in only a moment, two books in-hand, and together they sit quietly and read while Porthos naps. Athos has his feet on an overstuffed footstool that's pushed into the angle between his chair and Porthos' sofa. From time to time he brushes the side of his foot against Porthos' leg, just to feel him solid and warm beside them.

 

  
Evening draws in around them. Porthos prays, and the youngest of the kitchen boys goes around with a rush to light the lamps in the courtyard. It's quieter than normal as they eat, and Athos can feel the air between the three of them crackling. Something about the milestone of this day, the way it marks the last hurdle standing between Porthos and his return to the fight, has them all hungry for each other. They linger at the table after the food has been cleared. The delay is a welcome tease, but the longer they sit, the more it becomes clear that Porthos' eyes and words are making promises his body can't keep.

They all make it up to Porthos' room, but only to put him and his protests to bed, and tell him to go to sleep. Porthos opens his mouth to argue but stops when he sees the look on Aramis' face. Athos doesn't think he's ever seen Aramis' eyes look that hot and full of promise.

"Porthos, I love you very much, and there will never be a night of my life when I don't want to touch you, but on this night, you are going to sleep." He bends over the bed, bracing himself, one hand on the mattress on either side of Porthos' shoulders. "If you do rest, if you don't fight me on this, then tomorrow-" Aramis puts his mouth against Porthos' ear, and whatever he says next, Athos can't hear it.

He can guess at the general shape of it, though, if only by the look on Porthos' face. Eyes unfocused, lips parted, Porthos is breathing fast and shallow. Aramis takes Porthos' hand and moves his face close enough that the hair of his beard is dragging against Porthos' cheek. He's still talking. Athos can see the moment Aramis wins his argument: Porthos' eyes squeeze shut and his mouth clenches, the big muscle in his jaw jumping as he swallows hard.

Pulling back, Aramis kisses Porthos' cheek, his nose, drops a soft brush of lips over his forehead. He's still holding Porthos' hand, and he kisses Porthos' fingers before he lets it go. It's an act of will for Athos to uncurl his fists.

"What did you promise him?" Athos asks when they're back out on the balcony with Porthos' door closed behind them.

Hands braced on the balcony railing, Aramis is looking anywhere but at Athos. He turns his face up to the stars and Athos thinks given this is Aramis, he's probably trying to count them.

"I don't think I'm going to tell you."

"No?"

Aramis shakes his head. "I have faith in him, so why ruin your surprise?"

Athos grins and feels it stretch his face. He thinks he must look like Porthos had when he was astride Hayam, and for the same reason. These men make him happy.

Another glance around the courtyard, then once around the balcony with his eyes, and Aramis looks satisfied by what he's seen. "Good night, Athos."

He puts his hand on Athos' shoulder, and as he passes behind, Aramis leans in and brushes a kiss across the back of Athos' neck. "I love you," he says, as quiet as the whisper of his lips over Athos' skin.

Reaching up over his shoulder to grasp Aramis' hand, Athos turns and kisses their twined fingers. He says it back. For as long as he can, he'll always say it back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This past year has been a lesson in patience, crisis management, medication titration, and resilience. It wasn't my intention to go so long before this update was ready, and I can't ever thank you enough for sticking with me over months and months and months of silence. 
> 
> Originally this was meant to be a single chapter, because otherwise it would be one chapter of mostly all plot, and one chapter that's about 6,000 words of smut with a couple of narrative bookend paragraphs, and I try to avoid that kind of inconsitency. However, I know me, and I know my schedule, and no matter my best intentions, if I wait until I've got the second half ready, it's likely to be July before I find time to format and get it posted, and I promised myself I wouldn't go a full year without an update.
> 
> So, thanks for making it through the plot, hopefully there will be some unmitigated filth for you before the week is out. 
> 
> After that is Acre, the thing I've been excited to write since I started this, and it's already well underway.
> 
> I reread comments whenever I got discouraged or lost my motivation, and I just feel like I need to tell you all again how much each and every comment or kudos means, how inspiring and reassuring, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for sending them. I'm the luckiest Melly.


	13. how to love you in all things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only minutes of the next day they don’t spend looking at each other and feeling the lightning in the space between them are the ones they spend riding.

_Your love taught me_   
_How to love you in all things_   
_in a bare winter tree,_   
_in dry yellow leaves_   
_in the rain, in a tempest_

_\- Nizar Qabbani_

_~_

  
The only minutes of the next day they don’t spend looking at each other and feeling the lightning in the space between them are the ones they spend riding. 

Zahira, when she hears Aramis's voice, pokes her head over the door to her stall. She noses at Aramis's chest until he pulls out the waxed linen bag of dried apricot slices and feeds her two. 

Athos looks back at Porthos where he’s checking Hayam’s hooves. “Is she yours?” 

Porthos meets his eyes, confused. 

“Zahira. Is she yours?” 

Porthos smiles. “Yeah, mostly.”  He settles Hayam’s saddle on her back. “She came home with me after a battle, but I haven’t gotten to know her well.”  A furrow creases the space between his eyebrows. “Too much time in the field.” Athos doesn’t have to wonder what he’s thinking about; he only has to try and bring Porthos's mind back from their uncertain future. 

“You’ll have your work cut out for you, winning her back from Aramis’ bribery.”

A smile curls one side of Porthos's mouth. “He thinks we didn’t notice him with the apricots this morning.” He drops his voice, leaning in so that only Athos can hear him. “Please tell me we haven’t been that obvious.”

“Mmm. Yes, let’s all pray we’ve been as subtle as Aramis thinks he is.”

Porthos laughs, and Athos takes it in with every part of himself.

It’s another sedate ride, but toward the end, on their way back to the stable, Porthos pushes Hayam into a loping trot, and Aramis doesn’t stop him. Athos is watching Porthos's face, looking for pain or fear; he sees only joy. Athos wonders how many times Porthos feared he’d never get this far, how often, in the days after they’d gotten to Damascus, Porthos had thought he’d lose his leg. All those days were worth it for this moment.

“Eager to get home?” Aramis says. With barely a shift, Porthos's face now shows nothing but hunger and need. Aramis opens his mouth again, but Porthos holds up a hand. 

“Don’t.” He pulls Hayam to a stop, and looks around them, checking to see who is in earshot. “Unless you want to suck me down in the back corner of Hayam’s stall, just don’t.”

Athos can feel all the blood rushing to his cheeks and ears. They haven’t done that with each other yet, but the image of it in his mind is flawless, right down to the rushes stuck to Aramis's trousers as he stands back up after they’re finished. 

“You’ve broken Athos.”

“And whose fault is that?” Porthos nudges Hayam into a trot; Athos and Aramis just watch him go.

 

 

  
That night, when the door clicks closed behind them, with the world on the other side of it, Porthos takes two strides across the room and doesn’t stop to breathe as he catches Aramis's face in his hands for a kiss. 

Athos steps up behind Porthos, burying his face in the nape of Porthos's neck and wrapping his arms around until his palms are flat against Porthos's chest. 

When Aramis can speak again, when his mouth isn’t otherwise occupied and he’s caught his breath, he curls his fingers into the fabric at Porthos's waist and says, “As a doctor, I feel I should check your injuries. To make sure you haven’t over-exerted yourself, you understand.”

Porthos doesn’t answer, but when he swallows, it’s audible.

Aramis's hands are busy at Porthos's hips, loosening his belt and setting it on the table. “I can show Athos, so he knows what to look for when you two ride without me.” He pulls to undo the knot in the drawstring of Porthos's trousers. “Athos, you’ve spent so many afternoons and evenings listening to me go on and on about the human body. About anatomy. But drawings and descriptions are terrible educational tools.”  He tugs Porthos's shirt up and over his face, helping Porthos free his arms and dropping the shirt on the floor. “They’re hardly a substitute for the real thing.” The way he looks at Porthos's body is reverent, the stroke of his fingers over Porthos's ribcage a gesture of worship. “The best way to learn about the human body is with a human body.” 

Pushing his hands into Porthos's trousers, the fabric hissing over Porthos's thighs as it drops to the floor, Aramis leans in and kisses his chest, just over his heart. “It’s unfair of me, cruel really, to keep this information to myself. I think, you might benefit from—” he drags his fingers up Porthos's thighs, pulling the fabric of his braes up and exposing the curve of Porthos's muscles, “—a practical demonstration.” He pulls free the knot in Porthos's braes and they, too puddle at Porthos's feet. “An anatomy lesson.”

Athos watches as Aramis drops to his knees and pulls Porthos's boots off one by one, and his woolen socks right after. Porthos is nude, bare under their eyes, but not for a second does he look like he wants to hide. 

“Your devotion to education is admirable.”

Aramis stands again, grinning at Porthos while answering Athos. “It is, yes.”

When Porthos is spread out on his back on the bed, a shirtless Aramis kneeling at one side, Athos pulls a chair up close and sets a second lamp on the bedside table.

Aramis takes Porthos's left hand in both of his and strokes Porthos's fingers. “I love how sensitive your hands are, Porthos.” He strokes his fingers down the inside of Porthos's forearm, and Athos wishes he were closer so he could feel the gooseflesh rise. 

With two fingers, Aramis touches the inside of Porthos's wrist, tracing the vein. “Do you know,” he says, “that Galen tells us blood is created in the liver, where it’s made from food we digest? He talks about the path of blood to the brain and back out to the rest of the body.” Aramis kisses the palm of Porthos's hand. 

Laying Porthos's hand flat on his belly, Aramis strokes his fingers down Porthos's leg. “Your bones,” he says, “are not solid. Running through them is a cavity that holds blood and marrow.” Athos meets Aramis's eyes when he looks up, is looking straight at him when Aramis says, “That’s where I feel how much I love you both. In the marrow of my bones.”

Any other night it might have been too much, too flowery or maudlin, but tonight Athos can only nod and force down the lump in his throat. 

Aramis moves until he’s between Porthos's knees and Athos can see how the flicker of the lamplight makes shadows move across Aramis's face. For a moment it seems like Aramis is lost, but it must only be a trick of the light. Reaching forward, Aramis skims his hands up Porthos's thighs, his fingers coming to rest on the outsides of Porthos's hips. “The longest muscle in your body starts here.” He presses in with the index finger of his right hand and traces a path over Porthos's hip, across his thigh, down the pucker of still-pink scar tissue.

“It stretches all the way across here and ends here,” he says, rubbing his thumbs over the insides of Porthos's knees. “Do you know what this muscle does, Athos?”

“Show me,” Athos breathes.

Aramis cups the front of Porthos's thighs and skates his thumbs close to the spot where Porthos's balls rest against his leg. Grunting, Porthos bucks his hips, curling them up just a bit, trying to push into Aramis's touch.

“That. They help flex the pelvis up, and turn the hips out so Porthos can raise himself in his saddle — or show us just how much he’s enjoying this.” A growl rumbles through Porthos's chest, but Aramis only smiles.

Aramis lays his palms flat on Porthos's belly. “Like any good fighter, Porthos has a thin layer of softness here, to cushion and protect what’s inside.” He curls his fingers around each side of Porthos's waist. “Including the muscles that support his spine, and keep him sitting tall and proud on his incredibly-spoiled horse.”

Athos snorts, as if they hadn’t all seen Aramis feed Zahira the entire bag of apricots before they left the stable.

Athos watches Aramis's nails scratch over Porthos's belly. Porthos hisses and Athos can see his nipples tighten. 

“Porthos could withstand even more pressure, if he wanted to,” Aramis says, as if he doesn’t see Porthos's hands gripping the bed linens and twisting them in his fists. Aramis's thumbnails dig in deeper and Porthos grunts again, his hips jerking up and his heavy cock thumping against his thigh. 

Humming, Aramis changes position. He kneels up and leans forward a bit, putting both hands on the same side of Porthos's ribs.  Athos wants to watch what happens next, but he's distracted for a moment by the mark of Aramis's thumbnail still sharp in Porthos's skin. 

“Your heart,” Aramis says, “is right here, inside the ribs under my hand. God, in His wisdom, protected something this important with a cage of bones and muscles.”

Aramis goes on for a minute, but Athos doesn’t hear him. Instead, he’s lost in the thought that even with that much protection, even with it wrapped in every kind of armor the body can manage, Athos had his heart stolen without him even noticing.

When he can focus on Aramis again, Athos hears him idly musing on the nature of Porthos's spine. Aramis has a thumb under the hollow of Porthos's jaw on either side and he is tilting Porthos's head back.  Silent for a moment, Aramis turns Porthos's head until Porthos is staring at Athos.

“Do you see his eyes?”

The fires of Hell licking at his feet could not turn Athos away from Porthos's eyes.  

“I do.”

“Porthos's eyes are a miracle. So are yours. And mine. Al-Haytham says that the eye can take in all the rays of light coming from any object, filter them, focus them, and tell our minds that in front of us is a flower, or a horse, or a child smiling—” he strokes his thumb across Porthos's jaw “—or the truly glorious body of your lover, dark against his white linens.” Aramis's voice takes on a raspy edge as Porthos turns his head to kiss the inside of Aramis's wrist. Athos wonders how much more of this tease they can stand. "The human eye can do all of that, and still find a way to show how happy, or pleased—“ he stretches up and over to nip the edge of Porthos's jaw—"or hungry that sight makes us.”

The room is warm, and the sweat stands on Porthos's skin, shining in the lamplight. The promise of its taste is sharp and salty on Athos's tongue. 

Aramis’s palms drag down Porthos's collarbone, over his chest, and along the outside of his ribs. He names bones as he passes, calls out the organs hiding under them. He pauses at the bottom of Porthos's ribcage for the space of a breath, and Athos wonders if he’s trying to feel Porthos breathe, just once, to remind himself this is all real. His fingers curl again, but before Aramis can do anything more, there’s a flash and suddenly, Porthos's fingers are encircling Aramis's forearm.  Aramis twists in Porthos's grip until they’re clutching at each other. Athos watches their stares burn into one another. 

“Did you know, Porthos, that the way your shoulder moved so you could reach for me is nothing like the way mine moved so I could reach for you? All because of the way the joint is formed.” With the hand not holding Porthos, Aramis wraps his fingers around the curve of Porthos's hip. “The only other place like that, where bones fit together with such freedom of movement, is here at your hip.”

His fingers trace a path across to the front of Porthos's body. “The hollow at the base of your pelvis,”—Aramis presses with his fingers where that spot must be—“meets the top of your femur.” He stretches his thumb out and digs it into the crease where Porthos's hip meets his groin. “One cradles the other like your hand cups the pommel of your sword, and the way those bones meet allows you to walk, or mount your horse, or...” His thumb digs a little circle into Porthos's skin.

In the eager silence, Porthos's legs drop open, his hips going loose, and somehow, through the buzz and haze of lust at the sight, Athos thinks, _Yes, Aramis, I see what you mean._  

Aramis's thumb drags over and over that crease and Porthos's breathing grows faster. “Every soldier knows this artery here. We know how fast life can drain from a man’s body if it’s cut. Sometimes, even now, I think about how close that sword came, and I have to catch my breath.” He ducks his head, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as if this weren’t more than anything they’ve given each other so far, and kisses the spot just to the left of his thumb. Porthos hisses and his fingers dig into Aramis's arm, but Aramis doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps kissing his way across the join of Porthos's hip and thigh.

Porthos's other hand is still twisting in the linen of the blanket when Aramis's head stops. The lamplight shows the gold in his hair and the depth of his eyes as he looks up at Porthos and waits. Porthos stares down at him, panting, eyes wild.

Athos finds his voice. “Tell him it’s all right, Porthos. He wants to hear it."

“Yeah. Yeah, do it, Aramis. I want you to.”  He groans and rolls his hips just a little. “Go on, I—” He gasps, and next to him Athos growls with the frustration of not being able to see what’s happening. Pushing the chair back, Athos goes to sit on the bed. 

From this angle he can see Aramis kissing and licking around the base of Porthos's cock. There is a little furrow between Aramis's eyebrows and Athos can’t tell if he’s worried he’s doing this wrong or if—no, that has to be it. Aramis is always harder on himself than anyone else. He’s mouthing up the side of Porthos's cock and Porthos has his head dropped back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. Aramis can’t see that, can’t tell that Porthos is lost to this feeling.

When Aramis goes back to licking the base, Porthos's face relaxes a little and this moment is as good as any other for Athos to step in. 

“Porthos?” The noise Porthos makes can’t really be called a word, but it’s an answer nonetheless. “Has anyone ever done this for you?”

Blinking in confusion, Porthos looks at Athos. “Huh?” Athos repeats the question, and Porthos thinks for a second. He hisses and Athos watches as Aramis licks a path over his balls. “Few times? A woman when I was younger and—“ Another hiss. “And maybe once or twice with a girl fr— Fuck! Aramis!”

“As I thought. So, would you say that, of all the men you’ve ever been in love with, no one has been better than Aramis?”

Porthos laughs and Aramis lifts his head to look at Porthos's face. 

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s the best. Everything he’s doing feels—” The rest is lost in a gasp and a groan as Aramis wraps his lips around the head of Porthos's cock. He closes his eyes, sighs, and Athos can see that all the worry is gone. 

Athos's thigh presses against Porthos's, both of them watching. Working his head down, Aramis is taking a little more in, and then a little more. Whatever Aramis does next, Athos can’t see; he can only watch Porthos's hips jerk up just before Aramis pulls back, coughing, eyes watering.

Porthos's eyes are wide and worried. “Aramis, I’m so sorry. You don’t—”

“Yes, I do.” With his hands framing Porthos's cock, Aramis leans back in.

“Maybe we should—”

“Porthos,” Aramis cuts him off. He’s still staring at Porthos's cock, his eyes determined. It twitches in his hand. He glances up, meets Porthos's worried eyes. “I promise I’ll stop before I hurt myself. I promise.”  

Porthos nods almost imperceptibly, which Aramis clearly takes as his cue. He slides his mouth down over Porthos again, almost as far as he had last time, but this time he pulls back just before Porthos's hips come up. The upward slide of Aramis's mouth seems to undo him as much as Aramis taking him in.  Aramis does that again and again.

Athos watches Aramis learn Porthos, moment by moment. Eventually, somehow, Aramis figures out that if he drops his jaw and opens his mouth he can get a little more in. The sounds it's making seem so loud in the room, the wet, slick popping of Aramis's tongue and cheeks against Porthos's skin and the happy hum Aramis makes as he closes his lips around Porthos when he sucks his way up again.

Once or twice there’s what must be a scrape of teeth and a hiss from Porthos, and Aramis backs off, rearranges himself, and tries again. He’s spurred on by the litany of groans, and begging, and phrases in Arabic muttered too low and fast for Athos to make them out. Porthos's hips start to roll the slightest bit, pushing up into wave after wave of Aramis's mouth slipping along his cock.

Face burning, mouth dry, Athos knows this is the filthiest thing he’s ever seen with his own eyes. More than everything he ever saw in every brothel he pulled his little brother out of. Somehow, even more than all the evenings he’s spent watching Aramis rut against Porthos until they’re both spent. 

Their bodies are a study in contrast. Aramis is fully clothed, still wearing the shirt and trousers he’d worn to the stables, kneeling in devotion in front of a gloriously naked Porthos. His lips and tongue are bright pink against Porthos's skin.  Aramis's nose is running and there is drool streaming out of his mouth and pooling in the dark curls at the base of Porthos's cock, but his face shows nothing but perfect, serene bliss. Somehow that’s the filthiest thing of all. He looks like he could happily do this forever and never even notice the way his own cock is pushing against his clothing. 

Athos has only ever seen Aramis this peaceful at prayer.

It’s filthy, and lewd, and blasphemous, and it is the most beautiful thing Athos has ever seen.

Aramis gags again, but this time he wraps one hand around Porthos's cock and braces the other against Porthos's hip, holding him down as much as he can. His own fingers are keeping Aramis from taking too much in, and so he is free to suck and lick and kiss Porthos with near-abandon until Porthos grunts in a way that isn’t a sign of pleasure.

Athos looks at Porthos's face, then down again at Aramis. His fingers are wrapped so tightly that his knuckles are white. “Looser, love,” Athos says. 

With a curious “Mmm?” Aramis pulls all the way off and must then realize how tight his grip is, because he lets go completely and wiggles his fingers, stretching them out.

“Porthos, my ap—“

“Don’t you fucking apologize. Don’t you apologize for a single thing.” Porthos drags one hand through Aramis's hair. “You’re amazing.”

He grips Porthos again, loosely this time, and smiles; and, if Athos didn’t know Aramis for the wanton he is, he might call that smile sheepish. 

“Aramis?”  When their eyes meet, Athos goes on. “When my swordmaster was teaching us something new, he’d layer it on top of a skill we’d already mastered.” Aramis looks confused until Athos stares, meaningfully, at the place where Aramis's fingers are circling Porthos's cock. They’ve spent weeks learning the right ways to touch each other, and Athos looks back up in time to see Aramis realize that.

“Athos,” he says, so fondly that Athos has no choice but to lean in and kiss him.

Porthos's breathing gets hard and fast as Aramis's hand strokes and twists and holds just the way Porthos likes. Athos is watching Porthos's face when Aramis sucks him in again, and it’s heart-stopping.

_What could be better?_  Athos thinks; and then he knows.

Taking the little pot of sandalwood oil in one hand, Athos touches Aramis on his shoulder and says his name. Aramis looks up and somehow smiles around Porthos's cock. Athos pulls the stopper and Aramis dips two fingers in. He’s busy stoppering the bottle and putting it back on the table, so Athos misses the moment when Aramis's fingers start to stroke and rub at Porthos's hole, but he doesn’t miss the look on Porthos's face.

It’s pain and joy and pleasure and so much _want_.

Normally, when they do this, it’s the other way around. Porthos has done this to Aramis enough times that Athos can tell by the sound Aramis makes how deep Porthos's fingers are, but this is the first time Porthos has had it done for him. 

“Show him why you love so much when he does this for you, Aramis.”

The night grows cooler, the insects quiet down, and all the while Aramis strokes and teases and licks and stretches Porthos. Eventually the obscene liquid slide of his fingers in and out of Porthos's ass is added to the sounds of their night.

When Aramis stills every movement but the twisting thrust of his right hand and the stroke of his tongue under the head of Porthos's cock, Porthos loses his grip on his control. Every breath out is a quiet wail and every breath in is a twist of his hands against the bed. He’s been saying things, beautiful and filthy things, promises and praise, but now he’s only saying Aramis's name over and over. 

“Off, Aramis,” he finally says. “Now, Aramis. Now now!”

Aramis sucks his way off of Porthos's cock with a soft pop, but he never stops slipping his fingers in and out. When he strokes with his left hand, slipping it up until he can brush his thumb over the spot he’d been licking only moments before, Porthos's back bows off the bed and his cock pulses in Aramis's grip. Porthos stripes his own belly and Aramis's hand, and at least a little must hit Aramis's face, because his tongue darts out to lick it off his upper lip.

“You’re exquisite, Porthos.” Aramis strokes his cheek up the length of Porthos's cock and kisses the head until Porthos, now too sensitive even for that light touch, tries to squirm away.

Aramis presses one last kiss to the cradle of Porthos's hip before he slips his fingers out and crosses the room to find a pitcher of water and a soft cloth. 

A shadow crosses Porthos's face, and Athos remembers Aramis saying that the first few moments after Porthos'ss fingers are gone, the sudden emptiness makes him ache.

There’s enough oil still clinging, still making everything slick and easy, to let Athos slip two fingers inside Porthos in no more time than it takes to bend and kiss the gasp right out of Porthos's mouth.

“Until you’re ready,” Athos says. Porthos kisses him again, deeper this time, and rolls his hips up, fucking himself onto Athos's fingers.

“How many, Athos?” Aramis is wiping his hand clean and staring at them.

“Two. Like you.”

The two of them watch Porthos, his cock softening, his body lazy but unsated, the fingers in him keeping him pushing and rocking against Athos's hand.

“If… If he wanted more, if you could get to three,” Aramis swallows and blinks, slow and hungry, “then it could be more than your fingers.”

Porthos clenches around Athos's fingers, and Athos freezes. 

“Athos.”  Porthos's voice is husky and dry, and his eyes are enormous. “Would you?"

_I would bring you the moon if you wanted it,_  Athos thinks. “We could try.”

Porthos groans and relaxes a little. Athos starts moving again, but he doesn’t try for more until Porthos is as soft and easy as he was before Aramis spoke. 

At first, the stretch when Athos slides his third finger in alongside the other two is too much for Porthos. He clenches again, and hisses, and Athos doesn’t move a muscle, ready to stop, until the tension drains from Porthos's face. They won’t need much of this; Athos is long, but slender. Still, he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, how long he’s been slipping and twisting three fingers into Porthos's ass over and over. Athos doesn’t notice Porthos's growing impatience until Porthos growls, “Athos, I need you.”  

To fuck him. Porthos needs Athos to slip his fingers out and his cock in and fuck him. Straining against the linen of his braies, Athos's cock throbs.

How long has he been this hard? Since Aramis first sucked his way down Porthos's cock, certainly, but probably long before. 

“I need to take my hand away. I don’t want to do this like—” Athos gestures down his body, to his clothes and his boots and everything that would keep him from feeling his body naked against Porthos's body. “I need your skin.”

Porthos nods and Athos pulls out, taking just a second to run the tips of his fingers over the slightly puffy edge of Porthos's hole. 

“Let me.” Aramis is there again, taking Athos's place and keeping Porthos ready, open.

“Feels so good.”

“I know, love. Why do you think I beg you for it so often?”

Athos sees their smiles, and he loves them both so much. He strips as quickly as he can and reaches for the oil again. The promise of Porthos's tight heat around him makes Athos grip himself until the shudder finishes passing through him.

“He needs you, Athos.”

It’s indescribable. 

Every word he’s ever known is stolen away by the overwhelming heat when Athos first pushes in. Not all the way, not even as far as his fingers, but Athos is still gasping in air trying not to lose his breath. More than the physical sensation, though, more than the impossible tightness of Porthos's hole around him, or the bite of his fingernails into Athos's arms; more than any of that, it’s the way Athos's heart feels that most refuses to be reduced to words.

In the space of a breath he’s somehow more in love, more lost to them than he was before. Porthos's eyes are wide and locked on Athos's as he catches his breath and relaxes. 

“I love you,” Porthos says. “I love you.” Louder this time, and his hands come up to cup Athos's face. “I love you,” Porthos says in the same tone he uses to gentle Hayam, and Athos becomes aware that he’s shaking. 

He wasn’t even like this his first time. The blacksmith’s daughter had led him into an unused stall, and he’d fucked her just the way she said to, but even then he’d known it wasn’t what he wanted. It never touched his heart. The first time he’d been with a man it had been quick and secret, but even if there’d been enough time, there wouldn’t have been moments like this. Something was still missing.

Athos feels like he’s been searching for that something since the minute he walked out of that stable, and this is it. He’s shaking like a boy, and his heart is pounding, and he knows he’s never loved like this.

Porthos kisses him again. 

The silence is broken by the sound of buckles against leather, and fabric against fabric. Then by the sound of skin on skin, and Athos knows it’s Aramis, not far from the bed, stroking himself. He turns to watch; Aramis's pace is lazy almost, his hand loose.

Athos doesn’t hold back any longer. He sinks further into Porthos, and when Porthos tips his head back, moaning, Athos kisses his throat. 

Pushing in is perfect, but pulling back out makes stars burst in Athos's vision. He holds himself perfectly still until he’s sure he won’t come. When the moment passes, Athos sucks another kiss onto Porthos's jaw and pushes in again.

Athos feels Porthos's thighs gripping his hips, feels Porthos's hands cupping his shoulders. He buries his nose in Porthos's neck and tries to go slow. Aramis exhales a sigh, and Athos can hear the heat in it, the wish to be next to them, with them, part of them. 

From under his hair, Athos looks at Aramis. He’s sprawled in a chair, legs spread, the slick of oil making his cock glisten as his hand runs over it.  Athos knows there must be something on his face that shows how careful Athos is trying to be, because Aramis strokes a hand over his own balls and says, “Give him everything you want to, Athos. There’s nothing you can injure with this, and I’ve told you before, he can take more than you think.” His eyes trace their bodies, their faces. “His eyes are eating you alive.”

Porthos rolls his hips up, sighs against Athos's ear.

“You feel perfect, Athos. I’ve fucked myself and tried to imagine you inside me instead, but I wasn’t even close.”

It takes every shred of discipline for Athos not to slam into Porthos. His eyes are clenched shut when he hears Porthos say his name again. Shuddering, Athos meets Porthos's eyes, falls into the look he sees there.

Hands twining in Athos's hair, Porthos tugs until he has Athos's full attention. 

“Athos. I want this. All of it.” Athos can feel Porthos's cock twitch as it thickens again.

“You feel so—“ Athos grinds his teeth, rolls his head on his neck, and straightens his arms, pushing himself up until he can see down the length of their bodies. He holds himself there, looking up again to make sure Aramis is watching. Aramis's eyes are glassy and all of his focus is on the place where Athos's cock disappears into the cradle of Porthos's hips.

He fucks hard into Porthos's heat.  Porthos almost shouts, grasping at Athos's back, his arms. Athos worries—but no, Porthos's hips are coming up to meet his, urging him on, so Athos does it again. And again. Against his belly, Athos can feel Porthos hardening. 

No one has said that if they do it right, Porthos might still feel it months from now when nothing else of this night remains. Those words are all unspoken, but that’s exactly how hard Athos is fucking himself into Porthos, and it’s exactly how hard Porthos is slapping his hips up to meet Athos’.

The weight of Porthos's cock, fully hard now, thumps against Athos's belly. Sweat is running down Athos's arms; it’s dripping from his hair onto Porthos's face.  His pace isn’t fast, but it’s relentless. Every place where Porthos's nails have bitten into his skin stings. Knowing that the sting will stay with him longer than the grip of Porthos's ass around his cock makes the pain so, so sweet.

Porthos's thighs have fallen open like they did for Aramis earlier, but his belly still clenches every time he bucks his hips up, fucking himself onto Athos's cock. 

“I knew you’d love it, Porthos.”  Aramis's voice is heavy and hot. “I just never thought you’d be so… greedy for it.”

With a growl that’s almost a grunt, Porthos's hands are gripping Athos's ass, pulling Athos into him. It changes the angle just enough that Athos's belly drags over Porthos's cock on the next thrust and Porthos hisses. Athos wants to see that again, to hear it again, but before he can even wonder how to ask, he hears Aramis's voice again.

“Porthos, touch yourself. Hold yourself like I hold you.” 

When Porthos looks a question in to Athos's eyes, Athos can only whisper, “Yes.”

"We want to see it, love.” 

Moaning, Porthos cups his hand over the head of his own cock and strokes his way down, wrapping his fingers around himself and stroking in time with the slide and push of Athos's hips. 

There’s a moan, and Athos looks up to see Aramis, gripping his balls with one hand, tugging gently on them as his other hand strokes his cock. It’s not fast, like Athos might have expected. Aramis fingers are so tight, and his strokes are slow and hard. From his face, it’s almost too much, and that must be what makes it perfect.

Aramis meets Athos's eyes. “Will you fuck me too, Athos? Someday soon, will you fill me just like that?” Before Athos can say anything, Aramis is distracted by something Porthos is doing, and Athos turns to see.  Porthos is licking his palm, making it as slick as he can, before wrapping it back around himself and stroking, harder now, and faster.

Athos is lost.

He bites down on the cry before it can leave his mouth. His rhythm gets sloppy, and soon Athos looks straight into Porthos's eyes as, this time, he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he just keeps pushing in, grinding himself against Porthos, trying to get deeper into that gripping heat. Porthos's hand speeds up. They all know that expression; Porthos is close, and it’s the idea that he’s going to make Porthos come that sends Athos, finally, over the edge.

Porthos doesn’t immediately follow. There’s a space of time after Athos's vision clears when he can stay buried in Porthos, hips still grinding. He watches Porthos touch himself as he works himself on Athos's cock.  Athos files away every twist; takes note of how every time Porthos gets to the top of a stroke, he slips his hand up and over before sliding back down. Between one breath and the next, Porthos goes from a full-handed heavy push and pull, to lightly holding himself with his fingertips, just below the head of his cock. His hand is almost a blur. Porthos is whispering Athos's name over and over as his body goes rigid, and he comes, cock jerking, onto Athos's belly, and then onto his own.

When Porthos opens his eyes again, Athos bends to kiss him. His cock is growing softer, and he’ll slip out in a second or two, he knows. 

With one hand still on his weeping cock, Aramis kneels on the bed. Athos pulls out and kneels up, making room as Aramis drops low and kisses Porthos's belly. As if in bowing in supplication, Aramis licks Porthos clean as he grinds against his own hand and the bed, coming a few seconds later in a hot splash against Porthos's thigh. 

Aramis doesn’t move, he just sits with his forehead against Porthos's hipbone, and breathes, and Athos can see the little aftershock pulses in the jerk of Aramis's hips. 

They stretch out together, loose-limbed and sticky with sweat, and listen to the sound of the insects in the trees and the water in the fountain. Aramis breaks the silence.

“I hate being quiet.”

“We knew _that_.”

Porthos flicks Athos on the ear, but Athos only gives him a sleepy wink and kisses the warm smooth skin of his shoulder. 

It’s true though, and much as they might want it, there won’t ever be a night when they don’t have to hold back their voices. Athos wonders if he’s the only one imagining them on a trip somewhere. They’d sleep in a tent, with nothing but trees and scrub brush and stars for miles around. Together, he and Porthos would make Aramis scream his pleasure so loudly it startled the horses. It can only ever be a dream, but the sad weight of that reality in Athos's chest is countered with the truth that they're here tonight. Just as they’ll likely be here tomorrow night. That’s enough. It has to be.     

“You don’t need to be louder. Everything you said was clear.”

“Thank you, Porthos.” Even the way Aramis tucks his head into the hollow of Porthos's shoulder is smug.

In the morning, all Athos will remember of the rest of the night is the way Porthos's fingers dug into the meat of Athos's hip as Aramis described an illustration of a garden of delights he’d seen in a book borrowed from al-Mutran’s library and how he and Athos might recreate it.

 

 

Their morning meal the next day is full of heated glances and unspoken promises, but it takes them another three days to test Aramis's suggestion. In the two weeks that follow, it gets harder and harder to stay quiet. 

Sometimes it’s almost a dance. Once, at Aramis'ss suggestion, Porthos kneels behind Athos, pushing his oiled cock through the press of Athos's thighs, fucking Athos's cock into Aramis. When Porthos comes, hot against Athos's balls, he bites down on Athos's shoulder, shaking. Shoving a fist in his mouth to keep from screaming, Athos feels himself spill into Aramis's heat, then the answering pulse between their bodies as Aramis goes over the edge with them. 

Another time, still sprawled in a heap of sweat-soaked limbs after the fact, Aramis confesses that the only thing he loves more than taking Porthos's cock in his mouth is having Athos fill his ass at the same time. 

One glorious night, Aramis and Porthos take Athos in turns, a few minutes each, for what feels like hours. Aramis holds a hand over Athos's mouth as he and Porthos spill themselves on Athos's hips and belly. A stripe of Porthos's come hits Athos's hand where it’s flying over his cock and Athos arches off the bed, screaming into Aramis's hand.

Days are spent at the hospital and the stables. Aramis joins them a couple of days a week for longer and longer rides, and it’s almost, almost possible to forget. 

They aren’t yet at the table one morning, when Athos sees Hamid approach Porthos with a message. When he joins them, there’s nothing worrying in Porthos's voice.

“There’s something I have to do with Hamid after we eat,” he says around a mouthful of fried dough coated in honey.  He licks it from his fingers and Athos has to clench his hands to get his focus back. 

“Should I—“

“No, go on to the stables without me. If I’m not with you by midday prayers, I’ll meet you back here.”

Athos meets Aramis's eyes across the table, but neither one of them pushes for more.

Between grooming all three horses, and helping d’Artagnan evaluate two potential new additions to the stable, Athos barely notices the time passing. When the call to prayer comes, and Porthos still hasn’t joined them, Athos takes his leave and heads back to the house, trying not to dread every step.

They take their midday meal without Porthos and it’s as unfamiliar as if they were eating in a new country.  

“Come on,” Aramis says as Yusuf clears the table. “He’ll get upset if we neglect our studies.” He won’t, of course, but Athos appreciates the excuse for something close to normality. 

They pull a low sofa into the sun and trade off the book between themselves, each reading a few pages. Athos, curled on the sofa, hands the book down to Aramis, stretched out on a blanket on the ground, and the shadows grow longer.

That’s how Porthos finds them, not long before afternoon prayers. There’s a sigh, wistful and fond, and Athos turns to see him in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. 

“You’re home,” Athos says.

Porthos nods, crossing the courtyard to where they’re resting by the fountain.

“Have you been there long?”  Aramis shields his eyes from the sun and looks up at them both.

Porthos shakes his head.

It’s Aramis who notices the way Porthos can’t stop clenching and releasing his right hand.

“When?”

Porthos closes his eyes. “Eight days."

“You were—“

“At the Citadel. Hamid told them I’d been riding again.”  He holds a hand up to stop the storm coming across Aramis's face. “There were soldiers in some of the beds when we went to visit al-Mutran. I’ve fought alongside one or two. One of them probably said they were glad I was doing so much better.  If Hamid hadn’t said something, they’d have gotten suspicious in a couple of weeks and come asking questions. It’s not. It’s not what any of us want.”

“We’re soldiers. It’s never about what we want,” Athos says. His fingers are tingling with the urge to hold Porthos's hand, to grip it and never let go. 

Aramis sits up. “Where will you—of course you can’t tell us that. We’re the enemy now. Again.”

The look Porthos gives Aramis is full of a year of living together, months of sharing a bed and their hearts. “You’ll never be my enemy.” He grips Aramis's shoulder. “If you asked. If you wanted… we could leave.”

“We’d never ask that.” Athos puts his hand next to Porthos's on the sofa and curls their little fingers together.

Porthos eyes are wet. He sighs and it’s a fist around Athos's heart.  “I know you wouldn’t.”

“This is ours,” Aramis says. “This time belongs to us. No one can take away any of this past year, and I won’t give them the next eight days by grieving through them like you’re already gone.” Athos has never loved him more than in that moment, when his voice is so fierce.

“What will we do with our eight more days?”

Athos dares a hand on the back of Porthos's neck, making himself solid and real to Porthos.

“Let’s start with some chess; later we’ll eat. I’m sure that between those two things, Aramis will have enough time to dream up a way for us to spend the rest of the evening.”

Porthos's laugh is little, but real, and it hurts Athos almost more than the tears.

“Chess, then,” Porthos says.

Aramis stands, stroking his hand across Porthos's shoulder as he does. He smiles down at them both.

“I’ll get the board."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience while the family and I spent a week in a foreign country and didn't kill each other. This was meant to be up weeks ago, but I'm hoping the filth made up for the delay. Thank you also, to Jack, for their delicate and persuasive editing.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been babbling about this story for more than a year now and I would be remiss if I didn't thank each and every person who patiently listened to me fret or flail or dump pointless bits of trivia about paper factories in Baghdad at them.


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